


"Sic Et Non" (Yes and No)

by Mooninscorpio, Wanderer



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:32:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 58,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6559456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooninscorpio/pseuds/Mooninscorpio, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold Finch and John Reese are in the Subway HQ,  waiting for The Machine to give them an Irrelevant Number again.  Yet, none are forthcoming as the Machine is barely operating, post "YHWH".  John finds an old rare book to browse through, begins reading, then dozes off.  Harold takes the book and also reads, then falls asleep as well.</p>
<p>The blinking blue light on the indestructible kevlar briefcase protecting The Machine, glows a little brighter, then dims again, seeming to mimic its sleeping Assets.  </p>
<p>Time flashes back ... 2001 --- Pre-Machine, 1900 --1800--1700--1600--1500--1400--1300--1200--1150--</p>
<p>Enter the world of medieval Paris, where two men are destined to meet and a legendary love affair changes the course of history...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. " Sic Et Non"  -    "New York City:  2016:  Year One of the Samaritan Empire"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [POI Discussion Forum Fandom](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=POI+Discussion+Forum+Fandom).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold Finch and John Reese are in the Subway HQ, waiting for The Machine to give them an Irrelevant Number again. Yet, none are forthcoming as the Machine is barely operating, post "YHWH". John finds an old rare book to browse through, begins reading, then dozes off. Harold takes the book and also reads, then falls asleep as well.
> 
> The blinking blue light on the indestructible kevlar briefcase protecting The Machine, glows a little brighter, then dims again, seeming to mimic its sleeping Assets.
> 
> Time flashes back ... 2001 --- Pre-Machine, 1900 --1800--1700--1600--1500--1400--1300--1200--1150--
> 
> Enter the world of medieval Paris, where two men are destined to meet and a legendary love affair changes the course of history...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to the extremely talented Wanderer, who volunteered to Beta my work and created this symbolically rich fan art manip of Pierre Abelard and John of Salisbury. Once you have read the complete story, you will understand the meaning behind these symbols.

 

 

CHAPTER 1

 

2016: New York City: Year 1 Of The Samaritan Empire

 

Scene:  Subway HQ of Harold Finch and John Reese

 

The dusty, gold leaf trimmed book is opened to the front cover page, illustrating a black and white, close up inscription etched upon an ancient tombstone located in “Pere La Chaise” which bears the names of two lovers, known through the ages, forever reunited in eternity, a fate not granted them in their own lifetime during the century in which they lived.

The rain falls steadily now and there is nothing to do today, no pressing need to save anyone, only to wait now… until the Machine is able to speak to its Father once again in the full perfection of its cyber-syntax.

The man reading the book has bookmarked chapter six with a paper clip, before finally falling into a light doze. Unaccustomed to this new purposelessness to his days, not having any Irrelevant Numbers to save after the “ correction” and the resulting crippling of their “ son”, the Machine, he’d been visiting his older partner in their sanctuary more often lately. A few shelves of rare editions were available, which was but a meager remnant of the glorious book stacks which decorated the old abandoned Library.

But today, with the odds even more stacked against himself, his partner and their embattled Team, the only sure action was to wait and hope for a return, a reset, and life as it was for them before.

He selects a small volume, with this cover photo. Intrigued by it’s subject matter, he pulls it off one of the little visited shelves towards the back of the secluded library and rifles through the stiff, yellowed pages, then begins reading with more interest, and as he experiences an unusual sense of familiarity with one of its characters, he silently reads on until nearly chapter six, until he feels his eyelids grow heavy with sleep deprived fatigue. Stretching his long legs on the only cot available in the cramped but homely “office space” there, his thoughts drifts once more to the main character in the legendary epic: If I had ever met the man, would I have done the same, once my true love and connection to the world had gone from my life forever? If I had been this person John, would I have asked Pierre why he did it to himself and to her as well?

He begins to doze off then, and his older partner, seeing the younger man getting some well-deserved sleep, rises from his desk, walks over quietly to take the book from his uncurled hands. He notices the bookmarked chapter titled “Sic et Non” This is the last thing I’d expect John to be reading, but … then again, John’s a very private person and I don’t really know everything there is to know about him. I just make him think that I do most of the time. He readjusts his glasses and he opens the bookmarked page and reads under his breath:

“After the traumatic event which he endured at the hands of his enemy Fulbert, due to renewed crowds flocking to hear his lectures, the famed philosopher-theologian resumed teaching once more in the 5th Arrondissement in Paris, at “La Montagne- St. Genevieve” Cathedral School. Sometime near 1136, a young theologian named John of Salisbury, traveled from England to Paris to attend these lectures, which were to become the foundation for the future Universite de Paris.”

He turns a few pages and his eyes rest on some Latin phrases introducing a treatise titled, “Sic Et Non”. He had studied Latin for a year, as an undergrad before studying at MIT, and was always enamored with languages, especially Latin, French and Italian. He’d put those to good use when working on the Numbers, involving medically related clues or when hacking into some of the European based cyberwar systems associated with the Numbers. More favorably, he enjoyed reading some of his rare editions in their original texts. His eyes rested on his sleeping partner. He was the greatest mystery of all. A man hunted by everyone, who’d evaded all his enemies, thanks to his protection but who was now in danger again from Samaritan. He read a few more pages of chapter six.

“ … the young students came from Lyons, Rheims, Lombardy, and Brittany. They journeyed from northern Italy, Germany and a very few from England. Of the latter group, there was one named John of Salisbury, a promising theologian, logician and scholastic, a clerk, of minor nobility on his father’s side. “

Yawning softly, he finally powers down his laptop. Leaning back in his armchair, he continues reading:

“There, in the simple stone oratory, stood a distinguished and well figured man, who aroused the admiration and awe of the diverse group of students. He was already past his fortieth year, having just returned to teaching, after his contentious tenure at the inhospitably factioned Monastery du St. Gilddard in Brittany…”

The rain pummels against the yellowed, cracked window in the Library as the man drowsily powers down also.

" John of Salisbury arrives in Paris, at the famed Cathedral School of Notre Dame, the forerunner of the University of Paris and the Sorbonne nearly a century later. However, in the year… ”

(Retrograde time lapse from 2016 - 2011 - 2001 (Era of the Machine’s existence)  
2000 —1900 — 1800 — 1700 —1600 — 1500 — 1400 — 1300 — 1200 — 1150 — )


	2. "Of The Young Student, John of Salisbury"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Reese sleeps and is transported back in time, to the year 1137 as John of Salisbury. He arrives in Paris as a young student, to study with Pierre Abelard, the most renowned and brilliant scholar of the age.
> 
> We learn of John's backstory and receive a glimpse of Pierre's past as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John of Salisbury was an authentic English philosopher of the 12th century, greatly influenced by Abelard's teachings. Their paths crossed while John studied under him as a young man, possibly in late adolescence. 
> 
> For the purposes of this AU fic, I have added a few years to John's age and given him some physical and background military experience in keeping with John Reese. 
> 
> There actual events surrounding the finding of the True Cross are authentic, except for John of Salisbury's role in the event, which is purely fictional.

CHAPTER 2

"Of the Young Student, John of Salisbury"

In the year 1137, John of Salisbury was thirty years old, a promising young student of mathematics and metaphysics, with a bent for logic and scholasticism. He came from a line of clerical workers on his father’s side, and on his mother’s side, several of his uncles had fought alongside him during the first wave of Crusades to the Holy Land. John wanted to rejoin as a part of the second wave but England was distancing itself from the ravages of these costly wars, overwhelmed with its own political troubles with the King of France. Also, immediate family responsibilities prevented him from this course of action.

In addition to fighting with the Levantine regiments, John had been chosen to take part in a very secretive retinue of elect Crusades who were sent to excavate the final fragments of the True Cross. Helena, mother of Emperor Constantine, was unaware of their whereabouts. The saintly woman found most of the holy Cross with her own retinue, however, due to the extreme persecution of the Jews at the time, she and her party of searchers hastily returned to Constantinople with most of the Cross and barely escaped with their lives. The bottom half of the Cross was still missing, to Helena’s sorrow. It would take decades until her dream was realized by another generation.

The rest of the Cross was finally found beneath narrow mazes on the outskirts of Jerusalem. Only the most brave men unfazed by claustrophobic spaces thirty feet deep were able to extract it. Those men chose John, then twenty, who possessed great manual dexterity, to open the alabaster vault found underground and upon opening the narrow stone vault, found underground. Upon opening he narrow stone vault, he found and carefully unwrapped several long linen bundles. 

The next moments were forever etched in John’s memory, as he saw and held three precious pieces of intact wood, tears burning his eyes as he felt a surge of warmth and tingling course through his hands, arms and throughout his body. He saw a flash of light in his mind’s eye, and a beautiful voice which was not human, but more like a rushing sound of wind, whispered in his ear:

“Three yet One.”

Three words - the mystery of their meaning confounding his mathematical mind henceforth. He told no one of this entire episode, not even his devout mother, for fear of being thought senselessly fanatic. John decided to hide the extraordinary moment deep within his soul, as a Divine gift only known to himself and God. 

Of His Education at the Cathedral School:

He traveled far to come here to Paris, with his teachers’ enthusiastic urging, and before then, with the blessings of Divine Providence, as his mind immersed itself in the memory of his great fortune in holding the relics of the True Cross in his own hands nearly nine years ago. Now, older and better educated, anticipation filled him as he trudged uphill towards St. Genevieve in the early morning chill, his face obscured by his hooded cloak. The Pantheon’s gray columns became more defined in the morning fog: a medium sized gathering of students huddled outside. As he walked closer, some glanced his way, curiously appraising him in his simple black cloak and dark blue garments. Taller than the French born students, he stood at six feet or so. He bade them good morning in accented French, and asked politely if he was on time for the lecture. Several nodded and pointed the way for him to enter with them. They quietly filed into the rows of seats forming a half circle with all eyes intent upon the center podium. A clock chimed the quarter hour, as a gradual hush fell over the anticipating gathering. 

Presently, a man made his way to the oratory, carrying several scrolls. His straight hair fell to his shoulders, framing a comely face, and he wore the plainly cut garments of a cleric. The only sign of importance betraying his station, was a ringed finger, signifying that his rank was higher than that of a monk, due to his superior education. His pale blue eyes radiated sharp intelligence and missed nothing in their gaze. He confidently placed his scrolls behind the podium and began to speak in a deep and compelling voice:

“Thank you for attending my lectures, returning students, and also for journeying from afar to engage in my lectures and discourses on my most current treatises, which I am sure you are somewhat familiar with.” 

He surveyed the room for newcomers and found a few among the diverse group. John saw him glance upwards in his direction, slightly interested. John’s clothes were cut differently than the others, more secular and provincial and as befitting his station back in England. It was the custom of the day for the students to introduce themselves briefly to their instructor, and soon, it became apparent that true to John’s surmise, most were native Frenchmen. However, there were several foreigners from Italy and Germany. A lone Spaniard sat opposite John’s view and one fair skinned, dark haired fellow from Greece. John was the only Anglo-Saxon in the group besides the potpourri of nationalities, and he wondered whether the esteemed lecturer knew the English language. He spoke in his native French, yet at times, switched to Italian and Spanish. Fortunately, John knew substantial French from having trained for the wars in Normandie before his long trek to the Holy Land. When it was his turn to rise and speak, John did so, in slightly clipped, accented French. The teacher nodded and seemed to smile at John’s attempts to speak his native tongue.

After the students completed their introductions and readied their scrolls and quills, their teacher once again spoke:

“For those of you who have never been to Paris before to attend my lectures, my name is Pierre Aibelard. 

John had heard of him for years, as a young adolescent first studying mathematics. His fame and reputation was the stuff of legends, speculation, admiration and controversy. He was compared to the philosophers of antiquity. A brilliant debater in scholastic theology, the didactics of language, logic, especially recently, of the Trinitarian concept of God. Yet, his views were almost anti-theological and bordered on heresy, according to powerful church hierarchy. Several times banned from monasteries and silenced by Rome, the brilliant man also brought misfortune upon himself, because of his penchant for making fools out of his contemporaries. He was so brilliant at debate that he threw his intellectual opponents off guard and always won the argument. It made for envious, malicious enemies bent on having the Pope silence him to banishment to obscure monasteries throughout the Breton provinces. Yet, here he was, past his youthful prime, but teaching again in Paris where he had formerly triumphed as the head instructor at Notre Dame. 

As John listened intently and took notes, he underlined those which he questioned. Several times during the hour, he found himself challenging various points with Abelard. His new teacher was more than willing to engage in thoroughly debating his views, which John was unaccustomed to, with his own venerable instructors back home. Other times, he silently agreed on theories which were similar to his own, much to his surprise. The hours swept by very rapidly to the noon hour. An hour's recess was called for refreshment and exercise. 

Outside upon the garden groves, the students dispersed to eat and reflect on what they’d heard. John still sat alone at his seat in the oratory, taking his small meal there, and then rose to walk among the columns to stretch his legs. He leaned against the coolness of the stone, recalling some of the stories he’d heard about Abelard: the brilliance of his oratory and unparalleled debating skills, the arrogance regarding his own superior intellectual skills, his pride in his gifts which he displayed during his youth. The man appeared to be neither this morning. A dark time for Abelard, which no one dared speak aloud of, some incident which drove him to the celibacy of the monastic life. Years of silence and hardship with the Church hierarchy followed, including some rumored difficulties with Rome and the King of France. 

John had noticed the gold ring on Abelard’s finger, the only visible ornamentation on his person. He pondered whether his teacher possessed a rank higher than that of a monk. So engrossed was he in his ruminations, that he didn’t notice the sound of the students’ footsteps nearby. The hour was over, and he returned with the others to the oratory. The fine camembert and soft bread settled well in his stomach as he was once again focused upon the logical arguments presented by Abelard on the reasoning behind the Trinitarian concept. 

For an instant, John recalled the searing moment when he held the relics, the “voice”: “Three yet One.” an inexplicable pronouncement which haunted his studies thereafter. He listened to the lecture with a sense of fate. Was Abelard a key to this statement? He’d never revealed this mystical experience to anyone, not even his most battle weary compatriots, not even his own brothers or parents. Would this learned man reveal to him the meaning behind that? Would he bring himself to tell him Abelard those words and have him decipher the logic behind them? As John was a practical man, he decided that if it was to be, an opportunity would open itself between himself and his new teacher.

The additional afternoon lecture continued on theology, and again, John had engaged Abelard in yet another debate, during the lecture. His teacher was up to every question John presented and then more, especially between himself and the young Athenian student, who often quoted Plato. When John pressed upon some points, Abelard appeared to be refreshed by John’s intent questioning and his use of mathematics to prove some of Abelard’s theories. After the second hour, Abelard took note of some of the students’ fatigue and allowed a short rest period. 

A little weary now, John shut his eyes and rested his head on his palms for a few moments and didn’t see Abelard slowly re-enter the oratory. He vaguely heard the sounds of the students’ chatter outside as they compared notes with each other. John roused himself in order to remain awake, and decided to remove his cloak. The cool air would revive him until the lecture was over for the day. As he stood to remove his hooded cloak, draping it over his chair, he turned to see Peter Abelard looking in his direction. Abelard saw a gleaming shape of a small cross pinned onto John’s collar on the dark blue garment which he wore. To his astonishment, he was certain that it was the famed Crusaders Cross. He saw how tall the dark haired student was, well over his own height, long black hair down to his shoulders, finely chiseled bones in his face, and a pair of blue eyes, haunting in their beauty and solemn expression. Abelard was stunned into a half-prayer: “My God, is this not the face of Your own Son, who died for the sins of the world? What terrible burden does this man carry upon him that his eyes betray his pain?” John noticed Abelard’s perusal, and so as not to draw any undue attention upon himself, resumed sitting and gazed down at his notes. Abelard studied the man’s downcast long lashes, the perfection of his masculine profile, and mentally reminded himself to thank the Lord a thousand times, that this fine specimen of a man was not anywhere near his beloved, when she was not sequestered in the convent years ago. For she would have looked upon him as a lioness scavenges for raw meat, and taken him to bed herself! Surely the man had a retinue of women waiting for him back home? Yet, something of the young man spoke of some hidden sorrow or pain. Did he too, have a tragic tale yet untold, and what brings him here to Paris? 

As the afternoon progressed, mentally noting in his thoughts, Abelard saw that his young pupil was bright, astute in mathematics, logic and had an appreciation for scholastic thought, yet was also ready to present his own ideas, which Abelard thought were of a more practical nature, more agreeable to the Church’s views than his own. Yet, he felt his new student would go far in his own way, as he seemed to comprehend Abelard’s more difficult examples of logic, which he was able to synthesize into a more commonly practical manner. If his student agreed, he wanted to speak with him outside of the oratory, if he so wished, to further their discussion. Abelard was also very curious about the inner workings of the young man. No doubt, he had seen much in his battles. Enough to possibly shun the military life for a more scholarly one? His new pupil couldn’t know that he himself, was coaxed by his own father to join the military, yet gave up his knighthood, for the academic life at a young age. It was obvious to Abelard that John had completed a military life and now pursued the life of the mind. A young lifetime already lived to the fullest, he concluded. 

Finally, the lecture day was over, and the waning sun set over the hills surrounding the Pantheon. John gathered his writing materials, and rewrapping his cloak about him, quickly left the oratory for the inn where he was staying. He was content that he’d come a long way to hear Abelard, well worth the bitterly cold, damp journey by ship across the Isles. He would return to his simply furnished room, to re-read his notes and sup early before retiring. Before leaving the columned walls of the school, he heard footsteps behind him, and turning alertly, saw his teacher Abelard walking towards him.

“Sir John! — just a word with you!” he waved quickly.

“Qu"est que c"est?” John asked wonderingly. 

He hoped that his teacher did not disapprove of his participation today. John noticed up close that Abelard had very light blue eyes, focused intently on him and his entire manner was lively and filled with intelligence. Here was a man accustomed with constantly formulating complex thoughts, day and night. 

“Young man, I most thoroughly found your ideas on my treatise very provocative and would like to discuss them further with you, but not in lecture, as time is limited there. Would you be amenable to meeting me tomorrow if you are not otherwise engaged?” he asked tentatively, for he hardly knew the younger man and didn’t even know whether he was here in Paris alone or accompanied by a wife and children perhaps? 

John was relieved to not receive a reprimand, and looked directly at the learned man. Again, Abelard was struck by the play of emotions in his eyes. He sensed a reserve held in check, an English trait he was aware of in some of his students, a distinctly protective soldier’s stance in his bearing, and a careful watchfulness throughout. He was certain that this man had fought and seen death in all its forms. 

“Yes, i would be honored, Monsieur Abelard. At what hour tomorrow, and where?” Abelard heard the clipped English accented French evident in his speech pattern. It was a delightful imperfection which he didn’t mind in the least. 

“At the first hour after the noon hour, as I have some morning clerical duties awaiting my attention until then. Let us meet here at the entrance and we shall walk to my cell at Notre Dame nearby.”

“May I bring one of my essays for you to read, Sir Abelard?” John asked hopefully. He’d heard that the philosopher was intellectually stimulated by reading some of his students’ works. 

“Yes, yes of course you may. I want to make your journey here worthwhile and that you will learn as much as you can while you are here.” Abelard gestured expansively towards the Pantheon with an outstretched arm. 

“Thank you, I will be there on time.” John bowed a little, turned to leave, then turned back towards the shorter man.  
“Thank you for your time with me. I have not heretofore experienced being singled out for favor. I am most appreciative.” he added, much to his own surprise and to Abelard’s amazement, as he watched the younger man gracefully walk away down the hill. He stared at the retreating figure for a long time, before turning the opposite direction, murmuring to himself; “What manner of man has come to learn from me? And why do I find myself drawn to this stranger of whom I know nothing? “ He walked back to his cell at Notre Dame, and entered quickly to light the lantern for warmth. He whispered softly to himself, as he prepared his light supper of vegetables and bread. The always present recollection of his estranged wife returned to him: 

“Dearest beloved, had I not banished you to the convent, you would be here to warm me on this cold night. Yet now, even if you were here… my poor body could not love you!” Abelard shut his eyes painfully as his heart recalled every curve, every scent, every sigh, every endearment uttered by his beloved.  
He ate hurriedly, while taking his pen in his cold, shaking hand, he began to write a hymn, to quell his despair:

“O Fairest One, Virgin Rose,  
To thee we pledge our undying love,  
For bodily hunger cannot on earth be quenched,  
Only suffice, the bliss of Paradise above,”

His thoughts drifted to his new student, John, and he was both intrigued and envious. Of his youth, his striking form and face at first. But then, the bitter, old thoughts of envy at every man alive in his world came back with a vengeance. Logically, it was unfair to think thus, as his new student had no knowledge of his intimate life or his problem. He would meet with him tomorrow, as his new teacher and mentor, as he did with all his new students which showed promise. He focused upon his higher mind to overshadow his baser thoughts of sensual pleasures remembered. Clearing his table from dinner, he knelt by his bed, and reigning in his emotions, to began his nightly prayers from his catechism. 

He drank a small potion of belladonna and cider, to induce sleep, and uttering the Aves. Abelard’s great mind stilled into sleep to await the next day’s doings. A vague vision of his beloved reclining by his side appeared in his mind, before complete nothingness overtook him. 

 

********************************************************


	3. "Of Abelard's and John's First Encounter"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John of Salisbury has his first encounter with Abelard outside of the lecture hall. As John begins to trust his teacher, he decides to speak about his mystical experience during the Crusades. Abelard is fascinated by John's account and the conversation becomes more personal in nature. 
> 
> We learn of what John knows of Abelard's reputation.
> 
> Abelard invites his young student to stay overnight at the dormitory.

CHAPTER 3

 

"Of Abelard’s and John’s First Encounter"

John walked quickly to the Pantheon’s entrance to meet his teacher as requested. Accustomed to his disciplined early risings as a soldier, John arrived much earlier than expected. He sat at one of the stone benches for a moment, to catch his breath. Paris was still in the grip of heavy winds from an early winter. Not having a long wait, he sighted the energetic form of Abelard approaching the steps.

“It is good that you are prompt, all the more time well spent today. For I am sure that the hours will fly straightaway with our discussions.” he said as he waved amiably.

“Master Abelard, I thank you for your indulgence on my behalf, and concern for my studies here at the school. I am only newly accepted within its ranks and have not really earned any special favors.” John bowed respectfully.

Abelard was inwardly pleased by his modest character and plain spoken conversation. Unknown to John, he had taken it upon himself yesterday to inquire about his pupil’s academic background and prior instructors in Britannia. He had been correct in his summary of his gifts: John was unafraid to question current theories, had a gift for Latin translation into the vernacular, to present a more readable form for understanding. He held to the tenets of the Church, yet, was also critical of its excesses. He would have to warn John of that trait, so it would not be his undoing.

Assured of his pupil”s sound education, he had slept well and looked forward to meeting him alone today. As he absorbed John’s greeting, he blinked against the morning sun’s rays framing John’s dark hair. Again, Abelard was robbed of reason, as he met his gaze. The truth would only do with him. An inner voice compelled him to relay his next words:

“I have heard of your great progress with your instructors throughout the years. And yesterday was but a foretaste of that knowledge, which pleased me as your teacher now. Perhaps now that you are here in Paris, you will find your true intellectual vocation, and make a contribution to the academic life of the church and state. “ Abelard’s voice was confidently persuasive. John was beginning to ascertain how the man was able to attract thousands of students from the western world to his lectures. He could probably convince a herd of swine to read Boethius, he thought wryly to himself.

With that, both men shook hands, as Abelard led the way to his cell in Notre Dame a short walk’s distance. The sounds of friars at work in the cathedral’s vineyard and winery could be heard, as both men ascended the steps to the teacher’s quarters.

John entered after Abelard, and immediately saw the rows of manuscripts lining its walls, a large number of scrolls atop a wooden desk and four night lanterns at each corner. Beyond the window, he saw the faintly misty rows of grapes, and smelled the warm scent of fresh bread from Abelard’s desk. It made him slightly hungry, although he had eaten early.  
Abelard noticed his eyes on the bread, and beckoned him to sit to a quick meal before their conversation. He took an ornately curved brass pot in his hands, from which wafted the scent of aromatic coffee.

“Turkish coffee, a rarity in Paris.” Abelard smiled, as he poured two cups for them. John took his gratefully, savoring the aroma and taste.

“My students from Marseilles presented me with bags of imported coffee from Greece and Turkey on their final day at the school.” Abelard watched John enjoying the treat, mentally noting the graceful economy of movement in his hands, the alert watchfulness in his glance as he surveyed his cell. After several moments, John remarked calmly,

“This is a most excellent brew which I have never tasted in my native country. I thank you very kindly for your invitation here”

John raised his cup a little as Abelard pushed the warm buttered bread towards him. As he did so, he again noticed the soft glint of his Crusade’s Cross. Piqued again, Abelard decided to finally ask him,

“I see you are a former Crusade. You must have been quite young when you joined, as the wars have been over nearly nine years now…” Abelard’s voice trailed off, waiting for John’s response. He saw a faint change in John's expression, as if memories assailed him. Coughing delicately, he added,

“I did not mean to provoke any unwanted memories of your time in service. If that is the case, I offer you my sincere apologies for initiating this topic.”

Abelard continued to see some inner discomfort in John’s expression, as he looked deeply into his cup and continued to drink. John rose from his seat, walking to the open window, looking out onto the peaceful vineyard with the mingled ounds of Italian and French speaking friars at work there. Abelard suddenly repented and cursed himself for his mishap, and joined him at the window. Looking beyond his student’s troubled countenance, he sought to lessen his discomfort. Pointing to one of the friars bending over the grape bushes, he mildly remarked,

“See there, Elder Silvanus? Portly though he is, he too was a young Crusader recruit. He joined with much zeal and with dreams of martyrdom, sought fame and mercenary reward. Yet, because of his bowed legs and flattened arches, he was unable to march even through France and succeeded only reaching Melun, towards the Flemish provinces, and returned dejectedly to his native Rheims." He smiled as he saw the overweight man attempting to lift a barrel of grapes ready for the press. John smiled at the unlikely figure and cleared his throat before speaking:

“I was only twenty then.. when I set sail from Portsmouth to Normandy, to train with the first regiments who came back from the Holy Land. I wanted to be in the forefront of the battle to restore Jerusalem.” Abelard listened with heightened attention, as John paused, still gazing out onto the vineyard below.

“I fought for three years in the city, and also in Lebanon and Syria. Because of broken bones in my left foot, the general of my regiment decided to consign me to a small contingent of searchers. We were not told what were were assigned to search, as it was extraordinarily secret and we would be surrounded by hostile Turks and Persians outside the city walls.”

After speaking, John paused hesitantly, ruminating over choosing Abelard as the one to confide his most riveting experience. Abelard’s views at times verged on dissension with Church teachings. His tutors warned him in England to remain moderate in his views and to avoid completely aligning his theories with those of Abelard’s. John also had direct information regarding a possible Council ready to silence the controversial teacher, should be persist in some of his nominalist views on the Trinity. Yet, his new teacher appeared to genuinely display hospitality and kindness so early in his studies here.

“Please proceed Sir John, you have my rapt attention.” his teacher encouraged him, and noticed the tension leave John’s shoulders, as Abelard sat down again.

John still stood by the window and he listened to John’s recounting of the search for the sacred relic, the part he played in entering the narrow mazes, so narrow that those faint of heart in close quarters were reluctant to enter. The finding of the tightly sealed alabaster vault hidden in the cold, damp tunnel, the unwrapping of the never-touched linens, and all the while watching his pupil’s countenance take on a strange intensity. At times, John was almost at a loss for words as he struggled to describe his experience.

“I was chosen to unwrap the linens. No man wanted to do so, for fear of a possible superstitious curse on his soul. At first, I was just as reluctant, and nearly walked away, but then, I relented, and firmly chose to do the unthinkable. I unwrapped the bundles with great fear and excitement too… and then, finally, I held the ancient wood of our Lord’s Cross in my bare hands…” John closed his eyes tightly, remembering the moment. Abelard waited in a breathless hush for his next words.

“I felt a sudden warmth spread over my hands, my arms, my legs, over my entire body and then a tingling throughout every part of me. I nearly fell backwards on my knees… I..I think I knelt then. Then I heard some sound like the wind rushing in my ears, and an interior voice, not human, yet just as clear in human language as you and I speaking now. I heard the words “Three yet one” spoken to me.

John remained standing, his eyes still shut. When he opened them again, he found Abelard staring at him intently, with a strange expression on his face. In his heart, Abelard was stunned to hear those three simple yet profound words. It was an annunciation in his mind - confirming some great truth to his questing soul, a truth that had eluded him for so long. John thought that his teacher thought him fanatically foolish, or worse, perceived as permanently defective due to being battle weary.

Despite the younger man’s uncertainty as to his own reception of his strange tale, Abelard also saw an easing of tension around his features as well. He was certain now that John had confided in no one, ever since the event had occurred. The man had experienced the mystical, and because of his logical temperament, had hidden it from everyone. He most likely would have done the same. John felt his teacher’s hand reach for his arm in silent acceptance.

Abelard was looking at the living proof of someone who had seen the existence of the Lord’s crucifixion. He knew that whoever touched this relic, would forever be changed, through faith, if not be scientifically proven that the wood indeed was the original true cross. John’s message “Three yet One” pierced through his mind as a theological truth, pulverizing all his preconceived notions about the separate beings of the Trinity. No one, not even he, was able to come to an undisputed explanation of the phenomena.

“Three yet one…” Abelard repeated to himself in a whisper.  
John sat down again, facing his teacher. It became clear to him that his teachbelieved him thoroughly, and was already deeply pondering the meaning of his “voice’s” message.

“I have never heard of anyone who has experienced such an encounter.” Abelard knew that instead of logic and thesis review today, they would both expound upon each other, their interpretation of this wondrous moment of epiphany, as St. Paul himself experienced on the road to Damascus.

The clock stuck two and the half hour. The vineyard was silent now, and the sounds of the winepresses below hummed in the background. In the sharpening shadows of winter’s sun, both teacher and student discussed their views on the Trinity, and then after those were exhausted, Abelard introduced John to some of his dialetic theories on the naming of matter, both human, animal and inanimate. John saw his teacher in his element and forte, and knew his instructors were correct about his reknowned reputation in this area of study.

Abelard brought out some aged burgundy for John, partially to allow both of them to calm themselves, after their intense discussions and John’s revelation about his mystical experience.

“ Some of my students from Macedonia have told of visions seen by the earliest Crusades. In battle, they saw strange lights emanating from the ruins of the great Temple of Jerusalem. At first they thought they were seeing the reflections of their enemies’ shields in the desert sun, however, these lights were seen in the absence of any legions.” Abelard pensively sipped on his wine.

“I have heard of these lights too and did not believe in them, as there were mercenaries too fond of drink, infiltrated into our regiments.” John interjected wryly.

“Is my student also a skeptic as well?” Abelard smiled approvingly. Here was a man who was accustomed to the realism of life, not given to exaggerated superstition.

They discussed many other things into the early evening hour. John could ascertain that the lecture hall with its limited time, was not the proper place for more lengthy discourse with someone as vastly knowledgable as Abelard. He was able to gather insight into his teacher’s character and found, to his amazement, that Abelard was not as arrogant or prideful as gossipmongers claimed in heresay. Abelard’s resonant and rich voice in the classroom seemed quieter and quite normal, in the confines of his cell. The clock chimed at the fifth hour. The winter sun had set earlier and as the winds chilled Abelard’s cell, John reluctantly rose, reaching for his cloak.

“I must be off to my room before the innkeeper locks his main doors tonight.”

“And where are you staying?” Abelard asked, reluctant to see him take his leave. His solitary life would return again and with it, the loneliness he felt as he grew older.

“At Le Rossignol Bleu by the Left Bank.”

“It is a fine inn, although a bit far from here on foot. It will most likely take an hour to reach by nightfall.” Abelard thought hastily now. He suddenly felt concern for his student’s safety and conjured a plan.

“The inns in Paris are accustomed to the students remaining here in the city into the late hours, sometimes not returning overnight, after much carousing at night. You’re most welcome to use one of the empty cells here just for the night if you wish. We have simple yet clean facilities here. I can arrange it with Friar Francois here at the dormitory.”

John blinked at his teacher’s thoughtfulness for his welfare and could only nod mutely. He did hate walking in the cold weather, and Paris could be wanton at night. He’d seen the dissipation in the Sixth Arrondisment where the taverns proliferated with rowdy, questionable patrons. He was accustomed to fearlessly walking the busy streets of London, however, he did not know Paris nearly as well, and Abelard’s appeal for him to stay was sound advice.

“On better judgement, I agree to stay then. I do not wish to draw attention to myself walking alone and it would be ironic if i couldn’t survive the streets of Paris after surviving the deserts of Palestine.” John laid his cloak down again with a small grin. Abelard was beginning to see the keen humor beneath his serious pupil’s countenance.

“One moment while I call for Friar Francois…” Abelard rose to find his dormitory keeper. John waited alone, and he idly walked towards the many volumes of classic literature. He heard Abelard calling Francois to prepare a room with clean bedding, night clothes and a pitcher of water for his guest tonight. Abelard returned to find John lighting another lantern.

“I thank you for your hospitality once again, Master Abelard. I know I shall have a restful sleep tonight here among the friars. I am indebted to you and have taken the liberty of lighting your lanterns to keep the cold out as you have been busy seeing to my accommodations.” John repeated his gratitude once more.

As Abelard felt his room warm at last, an unbidden thought suddenly took hold of him then: “I used to light as many lanterns in my beloved’s room, in her study, so as to better see her in all her sublime nakedness.” A pang of loneliness stabbed at his soul, at the recollection of their intimacy. Now, he only lit a single lantern, as oil was scarce in winter, and he had come to more meager wages, than during the height of his original tenure at Notre Dame. He was here by the grace of God and the leniency of the archbishop of Chartres. John saw a melancholy in Abelard’s eyes, as he lit the last of the lanterns.

“Have you a wife or a fiancee, as we say here in France?” he asked the younger man a little tersely. John was slightly taken aback at the question, for they had not spoken of their personal lives all afternoon, save for John’s unique experience.

“No I have not. I have not met anyone to truly tie my marital bonds with. Also, I have seen fellow students marry young, only to fall away from their plans to study abroad here, their lives completely torn asunder in order to support a wife and children on the way. By the age of thirty, they are like men of fifty, unhappily saddled in debt and the necessity of taking on any employment to remain afloat.” John responded in his clipped, accented French. Abelard nearly laughed aloud at his uniquely English idioms and reserve, so foreign to his French sensibilities. However, Abelard remained silent, not wanting to show his new student any disrespect.

“There is so much to study and so little time in our earthly lives. If I am to meet an exceptional woman, I would have to feel it in my entire being, just as I had felt the power of the True Cross that fated moment.” John added earnestly. He was unaccustomed to this unusually high degree of candor towards one he hadn’t known but a few days. Yet, he felt a  
growing kinship with his teacher today, as they debated, agreed, argued, and enjoyed their meal.

There was a slight pause in their conversation, as John waited for his teacher to gather his thoughts.

 

John wanted to ask him the same question, yet, he checked himself, as he had heard some rumors back home, about Abelard loving a woman several years ago, rumored to be his only female student. She was thought to be the most brilliant young woman of letters of her times. At first, to impress Filbert, her uncle, he complied with his requests to provide his niece with a sound education within her capacities. Fulbert placed his total trust in Abelard, in providing his niece with the finest education possible. Initially, the young woman behaved with all decorum. And then, according to John’s instructor, Abelard most likely used his considerable powers of persuasion on her, and seduced his young charge. as intellect clashes with sensuality, they obviously fell madly in love with one another. The utmost secrecy needed to be maintained, as Abelard’s position as tutor within the Church’s ranks called for him to conduct himself with the utmost moral integrity. The unfortunate outcome of her uncle’s discovery of their affair had been the disgrace of his favored niece and the knowledge of their secret marriage had only fed her uncle’s wrath towards Abelard, whom he trusted with his niece. Afterwards, Abelard persuaded his lover to enter the monastery to take the veil, in order to escape her uncle’s wrath. By this time, Fulbert had revealed to relatives and friends, that both indeed had secretly married, despite Fulbert’s initial agreement with Abelard, to keep the marriage secret in order to save his teaching career prospects at Notre Dame. Rumor had it that Abelard sent his expectant wife to the convent of her youth and persuaded her to take the veil. Shortly thereafter, he himself suddenly entered a remote monastery, not to be heard or seen by anyone for quite some time. The story became incomplete after that.

John did not ask his teacher anything just then, as he was not certain whether these rumors were true or false. He would wait for the most opportune time for Abelard to reveal anything he wished.

“You are quite correct John, “vanity of vanities” as the book of Ecclesiastes quotes. Even Solomon in his wisdom was not arrayed as splendidly as the flowers of the field. For I truly believe that attempting to find the most exceptional woman in the world is much more difficult than finding the most perfect flower in God’s creation.” Abelard gazed at him cryptically. John suddenly had the odd sensation that his teacher had just read the innermost thoughts of his mind. “Does he sense that I have knowledge of his tragic tale, even if inaccurately gathered through heresay? I dare not reveal my thoughts to him!” John quietly reached for his cloak and empty goblet, walking towards the doorway.

“May you sleep well Master Abelard and keep warm from the chill tonight.” John bowed as he walked towards the doorway.

“And likewise also, and — I was singularly honored to hear of your encounter with our Lord’s Cross. There is a destiny in our meeting here in Paris. I do not know what that is, but you have given me the answer to a question I have been pondering for quite some time. And when I find that answer, I shall reveal it to all the known world; and you may know it either before I leave this world, or afterwards, if you come across some of my revised manuscripts later in your life.”  
Abelard’s words simultaneously put him at ease, yet, seemed like a troubling presentiment. Yet, John was sure now that his teacher had taken his “voice” to heart, and wanted to make sense of the divinely inspired message.

John finally lay on his cleanly prepared cot, at peace with his decision to study under Pierre Abelard, the most renowned man of the age. He wondered what his teacher would present in his lectures the day after. Would he be inspired to lecture upon the logic of the Holy Trinity? Or the naming of the various species and subspecies of the animal and plant kingdom? Tomorrow he had no lectures, but he planned to return to the Rossignol Bleu and spend the day reviewing his notes as well as penning his thoughts on their discussions today.

******************************


	4. 2016:  Early Summer:  Florence, Italy-"An American in Italia"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time flashes forwards to 2016: Post- "YHWH"
> 
> Grace Hendricks, now known as Grace Robbins, is living in Florence under her new identity. She is apparently safe and acclimating to her new life. Yet, she is just as lonely as she was back in NY and still not having complete closure about Harold's "death" and the events which led to her living in Florence.

CHAPTER 4

 

2016: Early Summer: Florence, Italy- “An American In Italia"

The petite, red haired graphic artist sat in her apartment on the Via de Conciliazione, finishing breakfast, before heading to the Florence Institute of Design Intn'l in the city center. Known by her adopted Italian name, “ Grazia”, Grace Robbins, (formerly Hendricks) attended Saturday sessions for the Master’s Program in graphic arts and was three weeks from completing her 30 week course and during the week, she worked in the illustration department for “ An American: In Italia” magazine. She enrolled in conversational Italian as soon as she settled down in her small but comfortable apartment. She soon found a favorite corner cafe for her lunchtime macchiato, where she perched herself at a corner table, and silently studied the way the local women's dressing habits for work, shopping and leisure, anxious to inconspicuously blend into the masses. 

Today Grace was attending two lectures until noon and then happily spend most of the afternoon on Skype with one of her oldest friends from college back in NY. Her long-time friend, Gina Russo, called her on Skype once every two weeks, as well as keeping in touch with some relatives on her mother’s side living in northern Italy. Fortunately, she had given her friend a crash course in colloquoial Italian and the do’s and don’ts of the culture before she left NY last year. She left under traumatic circumstances, hastily packing the most essential items in her wardrobe, samples of her work, and not daring to leave the U.S. without proof of her “new” passport, identity, credit cards and a brand new job offer, all arranged by some mysterious benefactor last year. On top of all that, the golden sum of ten thousand dollars seemingly materialized out of nowhere, was deposited at a Banco d’Italia branch in her immediate neighborhood before her arrival and a modernly furnished apartment awaited her as well. 

After the first chaotic weeks assimilating into her new surroundings, more often than not, especially at night, she relived the memories of those disjointed last days and hours in NY. It played out like a reverse Cinderella story, except she still didn’t know whether her Prince was still alive or not and felt like she was the only one at the ball, here in Florence. All this good fortune with no one to share it with and just as alone here as she was back in NY. 

All this was happening on the heels of her life-threatening kidnapping experience and eerie meeting with the mysterious, evil old man with the British accent who apparently headed his shadowy organization. As quickly as that traumatic episode was over, she found herself in the backseat of a cab, headed to La Guardia, driven by Det. Fusco, one of the detectives who had rescued her on the day she was released from her kidnapping ordeal. She with her “new identity” papers in a manila envelope, handed to her the day before by the mysterious Det. Stills, whom she was certain, was not the actual man. Yet, it was he and Det. Fusco, who had unbound her blindfold after she was let go by the organization who held her as ransom. The watchful Det. “ Stills” had parted from her with the simple statement: “all I know is that he loved you back.” regarding her question to him about whether he knew Harold. That revealing statement was like an itch that wouldn’t go away. He didn’t really answer her directly, whether he knew Harold or not, but, she sensed that he did, at one time. Yes! he knew Harold and that he loved her! It comforted and confounded her at the same time. 

Sadness and loss overwhelmed her as she rode through Manhattan and Queens as she saw her last fleeting images of her city: a large part of her life was coming to an end. Her thirties were closing, and with it, the happy years together with Harold, followed afterwards by the lonely years of futilely hanging onto the memory of him, She’d built a self-imposed cocoon of isolation around herself like an invisible mural. That carefully structured life would also come to a sudden close as well. 

During the first heady weeks and months after arriving in Florence, she had coped with the newness of her life with the heightened sharpness of all of her five senses, universally experienced by ex-patriates the world over. She threw herself into learning the basics of her new language and strove to create a more European manner of living, in order to quell her homesickness for her family, friends, and her old city haunts back home. 

She rose to get her pale pink leather jacket and purse in the foyer closet, then peered into the mirror above the vanity there, to straighten her hair and sunglasses. She quickly opened the vanity drawer to get her keys. As she felt for them, her glance fell on the small silver framed photo underneath, and gazed at the man with her in the old photo. It was the only picture of herself and Harold, and it would follow her everywhere she went in the world, till her dying day. She sill carried hope in her heart that she would someday reunite with him again. Here in sunny, elegant Florence, she pondered on her Cinderella-like transformation, as she spent her free time people-watching in the local cafes. Somehow, deep in her heart, she had a gnawing feeling that Harold was still alive somewhere in NY and that he had arranged “all of this" as she occasionally described her current life to her long-time college friend, Gina Russo, back in NY. 

…”Gina, all of this is too good to be true!” she’d exclaim, or “I can’t make sense of all of this! What did I do to deserve it?” Her outspoken friend would listen patiently, and respond philosophically:

“Well, y’know, it sounds like you got a sugar daddy somewhere out there lookin’ out for you. Wish I had a life like yours! Don’t fight it, girl, just fly with it!” 

Her friend’s words were spoken in jest, but Grace thought of them more than she cared to admit to herself. She gazed once more at Harold’s smiling face.

“I’ll try and have a good day Harold, a really good day for us..” she whispered as she stroked his face in the photo before closing the small drawer again. She walked to the corner intersection to cross, and noticed that the streets were already filled with women walking to the piazza for Saturday farmer’s market. She passed by a small gelato stand, where children were already queueing excitedly. She remembered how Harold used to buy her an ice cream cone in the middle of December by Washington Square Park, and stand underneath the imposing arch there, offering each other a taste of their own favorite flavor. At the memory of that shared simple pleasure, she felt the welling of unshed tears stinging her eyes.

Grace never wanted to live alone, without someone to love her, and to love back. She sometimes had the odd feeling that she was banished here for her own protection and given no option to protest, sort of like a person under the witness protection program. She would recall the images of Det. Stills and Fusco, their kind, yet stern warnings to her, that it was mandatory that she stay out of sight from NYC. In fact, she was to not look back at her old persona, and fully live the new identity given to her. It had already dawned on her, while she was locked up against her will, that having known Harold in the past was the reason why she was kidnapped. As soon as she had uttered his name to the evil old British man, his whole demeanor suddenly perked up as his questioning took on a more urgent tone, indicating that he now wanted to know more about how she knew him. But why?? Why were they holding her hostage? What specifics did they want to know about Harold? Why did they blindfold her in the SUV, before she was told to walk straight across a bridge of some kind? What or who, was she not supposed to see?

They did that to political prisoners all the time from watching prisoner exchanges on the news. She remembered tripping a little as she walked unsteadily across that bridge. She felt someone coming out of nowhere, brushing up against her lightly, catching her by the arm to keep her from falling and she’d thanked the nameless person, whoever it was. Nothing made any sense anymore, not then, and especially not now. 

Here she was again, just as she had been in NY, completely set up in a beautiful apartment, a new job, a new bank account in her name. Maybe she did have a sugar daddy watching over her. She was stumped for an answer to the ongoing riddle that was her life, it seemed, ever since Harold died. She never stopped hoping that he wasn’t dead or loving the kindest person she’d ever met in her life. Her lonely grief became a kind of sanctuary against having to meet someone new again. It put her life on hold, and yet, she found quiet solace as she worked on her illustration work, which always seemed to arrive at her doorstep in the mail. She never lacked for anything except for the one thing she knew she could never resurrect: Harold.   
Now in this artistically lovely old Renaissance city, she was reliving the same lonely existence she had been living in the city. 

The more she tried to answer her own questions, the more the answer eluded her, always out of reach. if she ever found out, she felt that it would suddenly crack the ground underneath her feet, like a giant seismic earthquake. She refocused on her route to work, and saw the familiar blue and white postal truck heading towards her street. It had been awhile since she’d receive any mail from overseas. The mailman who worked in her neighborhood was a little familiar with her now, since she was beginning to receive mail bearing the Florentine postmark for her monthly bills and magazine subscriptions. How great if would be if someone, anyone, wrote her a little letter or sent her a card in the mail! 

***********************************


	5. Summer 1136:  "Of The Correspondence of Abelard to Heloise"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heloise receives several letters from Abelard, after several years' absence of any news from him. She reads them and realizes that his heart is as conflicted as her own. The thought gives her no peace and she makes a momentous decision...

CHAPTER 5

Summer: 1136 - "Of The Correspondence of Abelard to Heloise"

The courier had delivered letters this morning, after the morning “matins” at seven. A veiled figure hurried down the halls as she heard the novice gatekeeper call out to Mother Marie Claire:

“Mother Marie Claire, there are several letters here for Heloise! She very seldom receives any correspondence!” the novice announced with some excitement.

“Thank you Sister Jeanne… I shall summon her here.” Mother replied as she rose to receive the letters. She noticed the seal from Paris’ 5th Arrondissement and perused the handwritten words: "Cathedral de Notre Dame, Msr. Abelard. Addressed to" Soeur Heloise.”

Mother was quite literate, and had the authority to open any letters received here for careful review before passing them on to the novices. She carefully opened one of three envelopes addressed to Heloise, and saw enough of the first few lines to notice that they were penned in another language - Italian. Heloise was well versed in it, which she was not. Regrettably, she slid the thin paper back into place and re-sealed the envelope. Later that morning, she slowly walked down the long hallway to Heloise’s room, where she often sat immersed in her studies.

Nightfall: In the silence of the ninth hour, Heloise eagerly opened the first letter from Abelard. Her long reddish blonde hair was freely undone, at last away from the restricting veil. He wrote to her in Italian, knowing indeed that many of her letters would be carefully censored.

 

“…I intend to mix my grief with yours, and pour out my heart before you: in short, to lay open before your eye all my trouble, and the secret of my soup, which my vanity has hitherto made me conceal from the rest of the world, and which you now force from me, in spite of my resolutions to the contrary.”

 

Heloise bit her lip hard and shut her eyes for several moments. She read further:

 

“ ... I remove to a distance from your person with an intention of avoiding you as an enemy: and yet I incessantly seek for you in my mind: I recall your image in my memory, and in different disquietudes I betray and contradict myself. I hate you! I love you! Shame presses me on all side.”

 

Heloise takes the letter to her cot as she begins to lie on the hard mattress.

 

"...Your Uncle, who was fond of you, became my enemy and revenged himself on me. If now having lost the power of satisfying my passion, I had also lost that of loving you, I should have some consolation. My How miserable am I! I find myself much more guilty in my thoughts of you, even amidst my tears, than in possessing you when I was in full liberty. I continually think of you; I continually call to mind your tenderness. In this condition, O Lord!”

Heloise's eyes filled with tears which she had held in check for months, even years. Her husband still loved her, undeniably so. What the cruel knife severed for him bodily, could not be severed in his soul.

“… I pass whole days and nights in alone in this cloister without closing my eyes. My love burns fiercer amidst the happy indifference of those who surround me, and my heart is alike pierced with your sorrows and my own…. Be God’s wholly, to whom you are appropriated: I will never oppose so pious a design. Then shall I indeed be a religious and you a perfect example of an abbess.”

Heloise’s memory returned in blinding force, to the physical pleasures she received from Abelard, which the years could not erase.

“...Deliver yourself, Heloise, from the shameful remains of a passion which has taken too deep root; Remember that the least thought for any other than God is an adultery….I have been indeed your master but it was only to teach sin. I am called your husband, but it is after a public scandal.”

My beloved is filled with guilt for his seducing of me, Heloise thought bitterly.

“…Remember my last worldly endeavors were to seduce your heart; you perished by my means and I with you: the same waves swallowed us up.”

The hour waned with the candle light as she read his final page with great sadness of heart:

“If I die here I will give orders that my body be carried to the House of the Paraclete. You shall see me in that condition, to demand tears from you, for it will be too late; weep rather for me now and extinguish the fire which burns me… I hope you will be willing, when you have finished this mortal life, to be buried near me. Your cold ashes need then fear nothing, and my tomb shall be the more sought after and renowned.”

Overcome with pent-up passion and grief, Heloise hopelessly sobbed against her pillow now. All that he had written was true! He had seduced her and as result, she became pregnant with his child. He sent her to the convent to hide from her uncle. Her child was born in sadness and fear and given to her relations for rearing. Their secret marriage was discovered and both were scandalized, culminating in the tragic consequences of Abelard’s castration at the hands of her uncle’s henchmen, in revenge for Abelard’s scandalizing Heloise’s reputation and family honor. Abelard sent her away to the convent of her youth, where she gave birth for their son, Astrolabe, and hours after his birth, she was forced to give him up to her siblings for rearing She was persuaded by Abelard to take the veil and vows, which she did with a terrible calmness, which stunned Abelard to his very core.

 

Now, at twenty and nine years of age, in the mature lowering of her womanhood, she too, was “ castrated” from living the normal life of a lover, wife and mother. She was right; it was better to have been his whore with its ensuing disgrace from society, than living a passionless life without her Abelard, who had awakened her body and soul to all the forms of lovemaking ever invented, which she craved then, and now.

The sacrilege of taking the veil, outwardly living an exemplary life, yet, inside, unknown to all, riotous passions collided within her heart!

She was fully aware that his physical loss as a man was too great and unbearable. His heart still burned for love of her, yet if she were to stand before him naked, how could he satisfy her as he had so wonderfully done? Could she blame him for shunning all talk of the love they once shared?

Extremely disquieted by the sentiments in his letter, Heloise finally lay on her bed, thinking of how to respond to his letter straightaway. She would again be robbed of peaceful sleep tonight as she began to fretfully toss and turn in the darkness of her cell. She reached underneath the bed for a small pouch: She opened its strings and again, gazed longingly at the small gold ring which Abelard had placed on her finger during their secret wedding. She was only several months with child then, and Abelard was still truly in love with her, worried about her and their unborn child’s welfare, and rightfully crushed with the thought of scandal and the loss of his teaching post.  
The familiar waves of regret over taking holy vows assailed her mind. Yet, she knew that because of her sacrifice, Abelard had been able to continue teaching and she had been able to give birth to her child behind the safety of the convent walls. Abelard had named their tiny infant son Astrolabe, a most unusual name. Heloise was forced to give up their son to her sister and husband, for proper rearing. It was unthinkable that a baby be reared inside a convent and Heloise herself was not able to leave its safety.

With overwhelming heaviness of heart, she took her vows while Abelard looked on, in total dejection. During the entire rite, she dared not look at him, for fear that every fiber of her body and mind would fail her. With the calmness of absolute terror, she had laid her hand on the Bible while the bishop administered the rites of holy orders. It was the end of Heloise as a woman of the flesh and she feared, the end of Abelard’s love for her. Yet, she was strangely relieved that she would not be tied to the bonds of worldly marriage. She found the idea of babies, squalor and perpetual subservience to a husband most distasteful. She told Abelard that for a woman’s lot, it was a type of "contractual prostitution.” Abelard saw the logic of that and that although he knew that Heloise deeply loved him, he consoled himself with the thought that as a nun, she would continue to pursue her intellectual studies, and he, his career, on two tragically lonely paths.

Squeezing the ring tightly with her fingers, Heloise re-tied the pouch and placed it under her mattress once again. The senselessness of the restraints of the Church in the affairs of men and women! The more she pondered about what sentiments to pen in her letter, the more her heart and mind wrestled each other for the truth: the only truth she knew was that she loved him still, and he as well. The only truth she knew too, was that human love and passion was at complete odds with the walls of celibacy imprisoning her. For Abelard's tormented sake, she would no longer speak of her human passions for him. From now on, she would distance herself even more and consider the post of Abbess of the convent. Her superiors highly regarded her intellect, recollected spirit and disciplined character. The only moments she would think about her lost husband and love, would be only in her dreams.

 

**************************************************************’'


	6. Late Summer 1136-A Fine Dissertation and The Calamities of John and Abelard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John of Salisbury presents his annual dissertation which is received with success among his peers, senior instructors and most importantly, his teacher Abelard.
> 
> Afterwards, Abelard invites him to dine in his cell and both men find themselves in a very revealing conversation about their pasts. When the night draws to a close, John retires to his bed and receives "Divine inspiration" about his purpose for coming to Paris and meeting Abelard.
> 
> The backstories of both mens "calamities" is revealed in this chapter.

CHAPTER 6

Late Summer: 1136- A Fine Dissertation and The Calamities of John and Abelard 

The tall, sedately dressed man took his place at the oratory as the students quieted at once. Abelard sat at his teacher’s desk and lifted his hand for John to begin speaking, gazing fondly at one of his best students this quarter. He had already read the first part of his paper but purposefully did not finish. John had requested that he not read it in its entirety, because he wanted the effect of surprise. In his dissertation, he had taken several points from his lectures and dissected them with examples of his own and also held them up to comparison with the teachings of Plato whom he greatly admired and also, of Boethius, whom Abelard often quoted. 

“The Nature of the Will of God.” John began, in his accented French.

"IF WE agree with Plato, who asserts that nature is the will of God, as a matter of course none of the above mentioned occurrences violate the laws of nature, since all things have occurred in accord with his will. He, as he enforces the laws of nature, has in view divine goodness as the ultimate goal.” 

 

Abelard followed the dissertation with his own copy which John had given him a few days ago after a lecture. He noticed that most of the students were beginning to take notes. John had gotten the reputation of thoroughness and practicality in applying Abelard’s teachings with his own examples.

"He, Plato continues, is the personification of goodness; consequently entirely freed from envy. Hence He decreed that all nature should be like unto himself in so far as each of its parts is susceptible to divine happiness. If anybody postulates that this purpose of God is the real source of all things, I agree that his judgment is sound."

Abelard listened on, pleased at John’s use of Nature to demonstrate the will of God. Surely this would not at all displease anyone in the Church, as in they themselves could not disagree with Creation’s perfection. 

"Indeed the wisdom and goodness of God, in which originate all things, are with perfect truth called nature, and nothing works contrary to this because nothing annuls the purpose of God or interferes with those causes which have existed from eternity in the mind of him who in his understanding has made the heavens.”

Within an hour’s time, John finally ended his dissertation, and relieved of the strain, went straightaway to his seat in haste. Abelard and the students applauded his fine presentation. Some of the other instructors who had been seated near the doorway, rose now to acknowledge the promising young student. Abelard motioned for all to take recess and return promptly for the next dissertation. 

 

John walked out into the shady garden where a small band of his fellow students enthusiastically shook his hand. The recess was quickly over all too soon, so engrossed was he with the attentions of his fellow students. As he turned to enter the oratory, he saw Abelard bidding farewell to the elder teachers, and resume his place once more at the podium. John greatly admired his teacher, but his natural reserve prevented showy displays of emotion. He would show his gratitude at the end of this day, by inviting him to sup with him at the Rossignol Bleu. It was to be his last few days staying there, as he wanted other lodgings closer to the school. 

“All fix your attention upon our next dissertation presented. Monsieur Grigori of Athens, please begin.” John sat with ease, his speaking before the students a pleasantly distant memory now. Grigori’s dissertation would be much shorter, he knew. The man’s French was horribly flawed, he smiled to himself. 

 

The fourth hour finally struck, and John wanted to hurry to his room to take refreshment. Abelard called out to him as he was placing his scrolls in his burlap bag. 

“Sir John! If I may have a word with you?” Abelard waved his hand beckoning John to the podium. 

“Yes, Master Abelard? Did the head instructors approve of my dissertation?” John asked tentatively.

“Let us sup together at my room, for the hour is getting late and Friar Francois has cured a very good ham and has saved some fresh bread for us.” Abelard announced pleasantly.

“I shall only agree if the ham is leaner than the portly belly of the good friar.” John retorted quickly, as he was pleased to be unburdened of his dissertation before the challenging group of students. 

As soon as John and he arrived at his room, Abelard lit the lanterns quickly and asked John for assistance in slicing the fresh, lean ham. John’s hands were strong and extremely dexterous using a sharp knife, as Abelard had noticed during the noon hour yesterday as John sliced open his block of cheese. John was surprised to see a flask of red merlot wine in the center of his teacher’s desk. 

“Ah, you do not miss anything here! I was told that this wine has been fermenting for three years, and it is fitting to drink together to celebrate your success.” Abelard’s eyes beamed as John nodded in approval..

“The senior instructors had all agreed that yours was one of the finest dissertations to have graced their hallowed school in quite some time. In actuality, the last time they were honored to hear a fine dissertation was several ago…” Abelard continued complimenting John.

“And who might have been the illustrious author of that one?” John innocently inquired as he raised his eyebrows and reached for two goblets.

“Your illustrious teacher.” Abelard mildly answered, yet he grinned slightly as if enjoying a private joke to himself. John secretly admired his teacher’s humor and was pleasantly surprised that Abelard had chosen to reveal this aspect of himself to him when they were alone. In the oratory, Abelard usually behaved a little sternly and spent most of the lecture hours vigorously debating and posing many arguments in response to his students’ queries. John realized that his teacher meant that he was the only student in that length of time, to be compared favorably to himself. 

“I wholeheartedly agree with my teaching peers, John. You have worked very diligently on your logic and canon. I have given much thought to your future endeavors in the subjects you excel in. I believe that by next year, you will be prepared in all areas to further your education in the Chartres School. It is well known that the many of the abbots who teach there have been excellently trained in theology and canon studies.”

 

John was truly stunned and grateful for his teacher’s praise of his intellectual progress. Yet, he knew that leaving for Chartres in the future meant that he would be parted from this great teacher. Always truthful to a fault, he took a long draught from his goblet. The wine warmed him and gave him some courage to express his thoughts. 

 

“How can I thank my illustrious teacher for all that he has done to extend his kindness to me? I would be content to remain here for several more years studying under your tutelage, and then, take my leave for Chartres.” John admitted truthfully.

Abelard once again, was caught off guard, startled by John’s sudden admission and once again, could not help but be mesmerized by the sheer beauty of the younger man. A teacher has many children, he thought now. A student has but one great teacher if he is fortunate enough. He would greatly miss his young protege, he thought, a little sadly. For now though, he still had a year in which to teach him everything he knew. 

“Fortunately, you accept most of the Church teachings with much more ease than I do. I shall teach you everything I know and I must confess that from here henceforth, I would be pleased to have you call me by my Christian name, Pierre, if you would please.” Abelard added kindly. 

It was John’s turn to be caught off guard, as he felt his ears redden a bit. He put his goblet down slowly, as he stared into the ruby liquid. The blood of Christ, a sudden thought invaded his mind. His expression became thoughtful as his eyes met Abelard's:

“Master Abelard, I should like that very much. You have always shown me the greatest consideration since my earliest days here at the school. How can I repay your generosity?”

Abelard looked away, towards the dark twilight sky behind him. He thought about how rare it was to find a kindred young soul such as John’s, unspoiled by acclaim or by his own intellect. He had come to Paris after the experiences he had endured in the Crusades. For that alone, the man deserved a laurel crown for bravery. Clearly, he had been profoundly affected by his encounter with the Lord’s Cross. Abelard suddenly wished for such an experience for himself: perhaps it would cure his soul in some way, if not his body. 

 

His reserved student was not given to personal revelations about his life. During a rare moment several weeks ago, as they both sat in this very room, pausing from reading the texts of Champeaux, John had hesitantly spoken of his prior life. He spoke of a woman he had loved long ago, but lost while he fought in the wars. He had returned to hear the sad news from his mother. His beloved intended, Jane Arnsdale, had died of St. Vitus’ Dance, which plagued the populace of Salisbury. Her fatal illness had come on suddenly, and her father, a tyrant and bully, spent the night philandering about town, neglecting to return home until next morning, to find his daughter in the throes of uncontrollable seizures in her final moments, his wife sobbing hysterically over her only child. 

Overcome with grief and guilt that he was not present to care for his sweet Jane himself, John was racked with guilt and temporarily abandoned all study. Nearly six months after her passing, John went to Cambridge to bury himself in studying mathematics. The only satisfaction he had truly felt in those grief-stricken months, was in personally beating Jane’s father senseless and leaving him on the side of an old dirt road, with nary a glance backwards. Jane’s mother had written him a short letter, with the triumphant news that her marital long-suffering was now over; her husband had succumbed to the dreaded illness that had his claimed his young, innocent daughter. 

Upon hearing the news, John got on his knees, and thanked God for His Divine Justice in the affairs of men. Once his initial satisfaction had abated, he knew in his heart that not even his death would cure his grieved heart. He thought of taking up in the Second Crusades and foregoing his studies, but his father was ill from overwork in his clerk’s office, and his mother needed him to carry on with his father’s office duties. John did what needed doing, studied on his own free time and for an added salary, helped his uncle nearby to plow the fields, bale the hay and tend the horses. His arms grew stronger from the work, and the physical exercise took his attentions away from the ever present guilt which invaded his thoughts. His mother knew that her son was not fit for the narrow world of a provincial clerk, so she sent him packing back to Cambridge again with her blessing: 

“Son, you are young, strong and very comely and will find someone to love again. You are a well rounded young man whom we have raised to stand honorably with men and to protect the weaker sex and to make use of your special gifts from God above. Go to Cambridge and maybe someday, to Notre Dame in Paris!” 

Her words rang true during his first year at Cambridge and then years later, when he made the voyage to Paris. Now, he sat across from the greatest mind of the age, in this simply furnished cell. All in all, he greatly admired Abelard’s great gifts, despite some of the teacher’s reputed character failings. 

Abelard studied John intently, thinking of how he could “repay his kindness”. Perhaps he could repay it at this moment, by listening to his tragic circumstances. He had told none of his contemporaries at the school or elsewhere, so mortified was he of his condition becoming common knowledge. Only Heloise, the medic involved in his recuperation period, within the monastery walls of St. Gildard, and the judge and court jury, who sentenced the two henchmen who performed the horrible deed. Whispers, jealousies and rivalries dogged his steps from one monastery to another throughout the Breton region. His condition increased his contrariness and his penchant for proving his intellectual rivals wrong. The Church began to monitor him much more closely, for any heretical teachings. . 

 

Perhaps his burden would finally be eased tonight. John had the gift of understanding, a type of wordless simpatico, as the Italians were fond of saying of such people. 

“Master Abelard — pardon, Pierre, have you something to reveal to me. You seem suddenly burdened… ” John spoke his Christian name very clearly, with emphasis, and yet so gently, that Abelard was deeply moved in his bones.

“You may be here for many hours, to fully hear my long tale of calamity. You must stay the night in your little cell here, which is always ready for you. Just say the word and I shall tell Friar Francois to place the key in the door for you.”

“Yes, I will stay the night, for you know how I much I dislike the Paris environs at nightfall.” John quickly agreed to his plan.

“A most practical! plan!” Abelard rose quickly to call the friar to John’s cell with the key and to prepare the room as he liked it, with a large pitcher of drinking water, a wash basin, a simple night garment and windows tightly shut against the drafts. John waited calmly until his teacher returned shortly. Once more, Abelard sat down, drank deeply from his cup, and took a deep breath:

“What I shall say to you, remains forever enclosed within these walls…” Abelard began in his resonant voice, after he swallowed the wine. 

“I shall guard your words with my life.” John promised as he raised his right hand in a loyal vow to Abelard. 

 

 

“You may have heard heresay or half-truths, while in Paris, or even in Britain, for news travels far and wide especially when it is bad news.” Abelard searched John’s face for any knowledge of his circumstances.

 

“I have heard only that in your younger days, you were once in love with a woman, perhaps, one of your pupils. She may have been of high repute such as yourself. I do not know for certain. It was said that you were lovers, and that some event drove her to the convent and you to the monastery. This is all that I know, Master.” John confessed, his face solemn as always. 

“I shall reveal the whole of it, as I am especially inclined to do so tonight,for some reason, and that we may never have this opportune time again. For I feel that both of our paths may diverge all too quickly in the next few years.” 

For the next hour, as the muted sounds of the gusty winds shook against the windowpanes, Abelard told John of the tragedy of his younger days. His ill-fated love affair with his beloved Heloise. The first months of their meeting at her uncle’s home, where she studied letters and several languages, chiefly, Latin, Greek and Hebrew.

Abelard was given free reign to tutor her in as many subjects which she could excel in. She was the most brilliant young woman of the age in France. As academia clashes with the pleasures of the flesh, Abelard broke his years of celibacy and as older lovers do, he lost all reason and fell impossibly and passionately in love with his young student. 

As their affair became more wanton and obvious to her uncle’s household, the naive uncle who had shown Abelard every generosity, became completely livid with rage, upon discovering the lovers embracing in Heloise’s study. 

Unfortunately, by this time in their affair, Heloise was already with child, and Abelard had already secretly married her, unknown to her uncle. Abelard decided to confess the secret marriage to Fulbert, and to plead with him that the fact remain secret, so that he could still retain his teaching career in Paris. At first Fulbert complied, however, within a short time, he began to reveal the news to his family and townspeople. Abelard decided to send Heloise away to the convent of her youth to protect her from her uncle’s wrath. 

 

Fulbert was enraged at the news of Abelard “ banishing” Heloise to the nunnery, and erroneously thought that Abelard did this, in order to get rid of Heloise for good, and end his secret marriage to her. The exact opposite was true: they were still married and she had taken the veil only in gesture, and not by formal vows.

 

Abelard poured more wine for himself, to brace himself for the next phase of his tale. In a flat voice, he recounted the horrible night where asleep in his chambers, his house servant accompanied by Fulbert’s henchmen, entered the room where he lay sleeping, suddenly attacked him in his sleep, gagged him and forcibly held him down, as they quickly and brutally castrated him. The household staff heard his blood curdling cries, and then silence, as Abelard fainted from the pain and loss of blood. He was taken to an unknown monastery to be tended by a medic News spread like wildfire throughout the town and within a few days, Fulbert’s men were caught, tried, and sentenced to the same punishment inflicted on Abelard. It was rumored that Fulbert resigned in disgrace as canon of the school at Notre Dame. 

 

Abelard visibly trembled at the memory: He told John of the months of painful recuperation and despair to the point of nearly taking his own life. Of his decision to send Heloise away to the convent and his own decision to cloister himself as a monk in the monastery of St. Gildard. Of his sudden, alarming distaste for academia, the corruption within the monastery where he was recuperating and the gleeful gossip about his condition among the monks and abbots. They were all envious of his intellect and did not understand his presence in their sordid monastery. They balked and protested against his attempts at reforming the corrupt practices they were accustomed to. 

Then, the unbearable years of silence from Heloise, his years of the same silence, because of his useless physical state and despair. His unsuccessful attempts to erase Heloise from his mind, his body, and his heart, to no avail. His feelings of extreme guilt that he was the cause of both their downfalls. The pain of reading the few handful of letters from Heloise, where she continued to confess her enduring love for him, which the veil and celibacy could not destroy. She confessed that her memories and dreams were those of a real flesh and blood woman, despite his attempts to change her sentiments from earthly love to the spiritual. In turn, he also wrote to her of his own failure to sublimate his own desires for her and eventually, over the years, a partial consent was reached on both sides, to finally accept their fates and to promise to bury each other’s ashes together for eternity. 

 

John listened wordlessly, as Abelard recounted all that had happened to him and his beloved. Finally, Abelard grew silent, staring into his goblet, not daring to meet the younger man’s eyes. John was so overcome by what he heard, that it took him several moments to compose himself before he could speak.

 

“I thought that my own misfortune was greater than what I could bear, yet, after hearing what you have spoken, I daresay that the Cross you carry is well beyond the one I had thought I carried, and not of any consequence for complaint.” John spoke plainly, without pity or condescension. For he knew that Abelard was a proud man who preferred to suffer in silence rather than show unmanliness. Here was a true man of strength, despite his calamity. He was sure that Abelard still loved Heloise with a passion as white-hot as the lanterns glowing in this cell. No longer able to physically love her, he most likely loved her in memory, in his own private thoughts and in his dreams. The knife of evil doing may have severed him physically, yet, the love he still had for his Heloise would never be cut or severed from his heart. 

“I know that your love for one another will never end, either while still alive on earth, or in eternity. Perhaps, the love you still bear for one another will surpass the bodily satisfactions all too quickly come and gone in the throes of passion.” John said in his characteristically logic filled manner. 

Abelard was immensely relieved that John did not pity him. He could not bear that at all. 

“I have oft thought of writing Heloise in that vein, as in my state, this is all I have to offer her now: a platonic love: as a spiritual father, no longer husband or lover. If I am the instigator of her taking the veil, to secure my career prospects, and if I thrust her into the arms of the church, out of jealousy that no man beside myself, ever enjoy her bodily charms, then I must live by my own example of spiritual asceticism, in order to set an example for her to follow. I am no longer a seducer and threat to womankind and my dear one is unhappily cloistered forever. I shall write her, yet as human weakness at times overtakes me, may I ask a singular request?”

John’s eyes opened wide at this, and he stared at his despairing teacher.

“Whatsoever you ask, I will do.” he affirmed.

“You are a master logician and have an eloquent mind for practical applications to the spiritual life and its virtues. I may need some assistance in your reading my finished letter to her.” Abelard knew it was a weighty request, yet, John was the most capable man to entrust his thoughts to. 

“Thank you —Pierre. I would be most honored to read your finished letter or letters to your Heloise. It is an extraordinary love which you both still bear one another, and if I may repay you for your concern for me, I would be most obliging.” John solemnly promised. 

Abelard’s eyes welled and he quickly looked down and away. John silently poured his teacher another glass of wine.

They drank in silent musing, as the last of the wine was finished and Abelard lay back in his chair, feeling fatigue finally overtake his stiff joints. 

The hour was late, and there was no more urge for intellectual conversation. Abelard once again walked John to his cell and bid one another a restful night. John gazed at his teacher with new eyes now, understanding the cause of his melancholy, the reason for his sleepless nights, and the continual motion of his mind. John finally lay on his cot, alone with his thoughts and of his teacher and friend’s tragic life before him in the silence of night. 

Is is better to live and die, having loved a great love, and suffer so horribly for it, as Abelard had, than to have lived and died, never having loved at all. John thought miserably of Jane’s life cut short by calamity, of never enjoying conjugal bliss with her, of his current loveless existence because of the guilty burden he still carried.

The bonds of their shared guilt tied them to one another, and curiously, a new trust between them tonight. Suddenly, John’s memories of holding the True Cross returned strongly, and in his mind’s eye, he saw the figure of his teacher, stumbling while carrying a large cross: a black, charred one, taller than himself. and his own stumbling figure, reaching for Abelard’s cross, trying to hold it up. Then that strange, glowing, blinding light illuminating through his hands, and into the charred cross. Hearing the same mystical voice like the rushing wind through his ears: 

“Three yet One. I am the One Love.” The words were clear and unmistakable. John nearly stopped breathing as his heart pounded loudly against his chest. Was this the long-sought answer to his question? 

Abelard’s tragedy had revealed the truth to him. God was present simultaneously in creation, in bodily form and in spiritual form, separately as Father, Son and Holy Ghost in different forms of being, yet, inseparably linked. Love bound human bodies, souls and spirits together, separately coexisting, yet, inseparably linked together at the moment of supreme bodily ecstasy. Human love mirroring the Trinity, as three yet one, from the One true Love. 

 

John now knew how he could help Abelard — Pierre. He would help him with his Trinitarian thesis. He would help write to Heloise that God would be their one love now.” John answered the “Voice". He had a purpose for coming to Paris now and resolved to speak to Abelard about it next morning, 

 

*********************************************************


	7. "Of John's further Education"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the summer of 1137: Abelard and John's friendship grows stronger, just before John leaves for the Chartres School in October. John promises to return to visit him in the winter. Both reunite in December in Paris once again. While John spends the night in his own room, Abelard is restlessly awake, reading Heloise's letters. He invites John into his room and reads a passage from one of her letters aloud to him. John has a recollection ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank Wanderer, for her invaluable assistance in Beta'ing my work, especially  
> helpful with ch. 7-14.

Ch. 7

“Of John’s Further Education”

The languid days of the summer of 1136 were ending and a crispness filled the early September air in Paris. 

Merchants were selling the first autumn apple crops, the “ petit pommes verts” and farmer’s wives congregated near the Sorbonne to sell the wildly popular tarts made from these apples, drizzled with honey, which the students bought for only three francs apiece. 

The School at Notre Dame was temporarily closed for summer recess, as the senior students were now gone since late June and the instructors had all summer to prepare their works and lectures for the incoming group to begin soon. Abelard had a much smaller group this term and a handful of returning ones. One of these was his protege John of Salisbury. As he was academically advanced, he would be able to mentor some of the newer students in logic and political thought.

Inside the empty school, teacher and student sat in a quiet corner of the Bibliotecque, reading some of the papers, which the newest group of students had already submitted in July. These papers would be graded by Abelard and John would offer his critique. They would separate the more academically advanced students to study under Abelard and the other instructors would take on the rest. John did not want to teach as of yet, but offered assistance in meeting some of the students privately, to review their works. Abelard was more than happy for John’s sound input, as he had been battling a chronic condition exacerbated by the summer heat - a susceptibility to weakened lungs and to his shock, most of his body hair had nearly disappeared, a very distressing after-effect from his old traumatic wounding. 

John saw that Abelard was still handsome for a man in his fourth decade, his face still unlined by wrinkles, and women occasionally gazing at him approvingly, while they walked to the school gates. With some sadness, John saw how he mostly hurried past the women, not indulging in any sort of exchanges. Yes, he was still a fine figure, but he noticed the other signs too: the loss of bodily hair and a change in his stamina. His teacher tired easily, and his nerves were often frayed when the school administration sometimes gathered in whispered conversation about him, just out of earshot, yet still audible to decipher some of the malicious remarks. 

“.. . the man is losing his relations with the Church!”said his contemporaries.

“His theories are becoming more difficult to argue against,-- no! - they are unequivocally at odds with most of our tenets!” said the senior clerics at the Paris School.

“And what does young John talk about with such a paradoxical man? Surely he must see that the man is an apostate!” said the instructors who taught John.

The endlessly heated speculations continued on and on, about Abelard’s controversial ideas going unchecked, the slurs about his tarnished past in Paris. The seeds of discontent built up among these idle and envious gossipmongers within the Notre Dame academia. John saw the subtle signs of hurt in his teacher’s eyes, as he turned away quickly to head back to his cell or to the lecture hall. John knew that Abelard was a man ahead of his time, misunderstood and sometimes, he brought ill-will from others’ upon his own head. His older friend was a proud and brilliant man, not easily cowed by others’ opinions. Ruefully, John concluded that the only person who could stop Abelard was most likely the Pope and the cardinals beneath him. Once he reached Chartres early next year, he would have to present himself as his own man, and conform his ideas to the Church’s. In truth, his views were very much aligned with Abelard’s and he was greatly influenced by them. Yet, he knew this would cause him trouble with the wrong people in Chartres. Later on, at the right time, he would gradually launch into his critiques of areas in politics and religion which he found lacking. As he glanced at Abelard, he saw the circles under his eyes, and a melancholy marked his expression much more noticeably during the past few weeks. 

“It is nearly supper hour, Master Abelard and you did not eat at noon, nor have a sound sleep the night before…” John admonished him gently. if anything, John could persuade his teacher to open a good flask of wine. 

“Why — yes! It is nearly supper hour.” Abelard looked up absently at John. He stood to gather the bundle of papers, rolling them up, to tuck into his burlap bag. He stood by the window and stretched his back and the cramping in back of his legs began again with the change in position. He muttered to himself, “ Ah, these bones getting stiffer by the day!” John took the heavy bag from his teacher’s hands and handed him his cloak. 

“I have a new flask of burgundy and Friar Francois left a large tureen of soup in my room. Too much for me to eat alone! John, - would you like to try some of friar's soup provencal? It has just about everything in it.” he asked John, who smiled a little, because he was correct about Abelard wanting to try the new vintage. Also, Abelard knew how John loved the French meals at the Rossignol Inn and the friars’ kitchen specialties, so different from the heavier dishes of the English palate. John nodded and grinned a little and took Abelard by the arm, to help him over the uneven steps of the Pantheon, towards his room. 

John had eaten two large portions, even using the day-old bread to sop up the remaining broth. Abelard sipped his wine slowly, happy in John’s company. Every day spent with his young friend was a balm to his soul, making up for the lost love of his life. John had read his letters to Heloise all summer long, and made suggestions on how to describe some delicate matters. John attempted to show detachment yet inwardly, it grieved his heart that the two were separated by cruel fate. To his growing horror, it almost made him hate the Church’s rules on celibacy for their employed tutors. He would never succeed as a man of the cloth. 

Though John was highly reserved, he had strong urges, especially a strong urge for physical touch, which he always kept in check when he was with his dear Jane. When was the last time he had been in women’s company? Much too long, he confessed to himself. He was too busy with pursuing his studies and wanted to study political thought someday. He knew that a wife and children would be able to complete him, yet, he could not support them on his meager clerk’s salary back in England. He also had not known any other woman equal to Jane since her passing. He imagined his teacher and Heloise as perfectly suited in every way and cruelly tragic that Abelard had lost his male abilities. Because of this, John found satisfaction in helping Abelard write to Heloise in such a way as to appeal to her intellectually, and also, in the gentler tones which appealed to women’s hearts, as befitting the most highly intelligent woman of her day. 

Abelard was quickly inebriated, as he hadn’t eaten at noon, having drank his first glass of wine on an empty stomach. John rose to light the lanterns by the window, shutting it securely, and drew the curtains. 

“John, I have forgotten - when do you leave for Chartres for your first orientation?” Abelard asked mildly, yet his gaze fastened on his wine goblet and he did not look directly at John. 

“I leave in early October, in nearly a month’s time.” John answered slowly, as he studied his teacher’s downcast face. He felt a pang of regret and sadness as he saw his teacher’s downcast expression. Abelard saw John still standing with one of the lanterns in his hand, the flickering light illuminating his face. As if John could read his teacher’s thoughts, he quickly added,

“I shall be back in Paris again in early December. I have to present my mid-year thesis to your superiors. The time shall fly very quickly!"

Abelard’s tense shoulders visibly relaxed after John made him aware of his return in two months’ time. John placed the lanterns on the nightstand and corner book shelf and sat down once more. 

‘Of that I am glad, John. Whatever shall I do, with all those papers to read and grade and my other assistant always carousing with the women?” he said almost lightly yet his plaintive tone of voice gave away his melancholy. He was going to miss John’s astute observations and his ability to simplify ideas to their core, especially when he had helped him improve upon his correspondence to Heloise. 

“If you think upon it in the future, you may set some aside for me to read upon my return.”John urged. 

John thought that would give his teacher hope for their future reunion. He took the wrapped cheese and deftly cut the string with his knife, offering Abelard the first slice and was heartened to see his teacher closed his eyes in delight as he tasted the buttery soft brie. John suddenly saw a glimpse into Abelard’s ardent nature and he again mourned Abelard’s lost manhood, as he watched him eat. John felt his ears suddenly warming at the thought of Abelard’s masculinity and an embarrassed flush creeped over his cheeks. He remembered some of Abelard’s impassioned lines to Heloise in some of the letters he had read and had surmised that both had indeed enjoyed uninhibited relations and that Abelard had still keenly felt the loss of that aspect of their experience together. 

Abelard watched John re-sheath the knife back into its protective cover. Was it the fuzziness of intoxication but had he ever noticed before how beautifully formed John’s hands were? Why had he not noticed before that John held items with his left hand? "The Devil’s Hand," the superstitious Italians called the trait. Abelard had a few acquaintances who used the left hand, and invariably, he had noticed that all shared some common traits: an athleticism and also a creative bent of mind. They also had the enviable ability to use the right hand just as well with certain tasks. In fact, hee saw how John had neatly snapped the knife’s cover with his right hand. For some unknown reason, the thought of John using both of his hands equally well seemed to stir his imaginings about John with his lost love Jane, whom he rarely ever mentioned. 

As he looked up from his goblet, and saw the hopefulness in John’s expression, he was struck, as he often was, by the startling intensity of his eyes, as clear as the snow capped blue glaciers over Mont Blanc. Was it the wine or his unbidden thoughts? Was John’s face reddening at this moment? 

“I will set some aside, but more than that, I shall await your return…” Abelard’s voice trailed off. He was unable to complete his thoughts aloud. His young protege would be leaving soon, and he would sorely miss him. He was a steady anchor amidst the sea of shallow minded colleagues. He took another sip from his goblet, and to his embarrassment, there was no more wine. John made a sound, a half-chuckle, and refilled it without comment. Abelard gratefully sipped again and noticed that John had risen to shut the swinging window once more. He secured the bolt tightly as Abelard also rose to offer assistance. Suddenly, Abelard felt a lightheadedness and John caught him just in time, before he nearly stumbled against John’s long legs. 

“Pierre! — are you all right?” John grabbed his teacher by the shoulders and helped him towards the foot of his bed. Abelard was a little more inebriated than he was accustomed to being and mingled with this, was his growing melancholy tonight over his favorite student leaving him. 

There was something else too. It was in John’s manner in the way he was catching him. He seemed to always hover about, just close enough to catch him from a physical blunder or divert him from the small groups of idle gossipers always gathered along there periphery of his vision. John seemed to instinctively sense when trouble was in the horizon. Abelard rarely allowed anyone to touch him since his traumatic ordeal. A panic and trembling overwhelmed him when he was touched, especially in the dark or dim hallways of the dormitory. His wife Heloise had been the last one to touch him afterwards. They had kissed and embraced one last time in the convent before he left her. before his return to Paris without her, to face her uncle, and to tell him of their secret marriage, and after that night, he’d gone home and had fallen into an exhausted sleep. The rest of his memories of that horrible night which took place on the dock near Fulbert’s home clamped shut. He closed his eyes dizzily now, as John sat him on the bed. 

“Just— a little too much wine John. I hadn’t eaten much today.” Abelard’s head drooped against John’s shoulder. He felt John lay him down on the bed, his hands lifting the blanket up to his shoulders. 

“I will sit here and keep watch until you sleep.” John pulled a chair towards the bed. He sat watching his teacher, who smiled a little now.

“Thank you John, for looking after my welfare, as always. That is what I will sorely miss, your concern and the —“ John saw his lids flutter and finally shut, and then Abelard was asleep, and John sat silently, still gazing at his teacher. He would sorely miss him too. John would miss Abelard's way of challenging him to achieve more than he dared hope for. He’d miss all their shared lunch and supper hours, the way his teacher would enter the lecture hall and take complete command with just his presence. John would miss his firm yet kind correction of his essays. He would miss the quiet afternoons where Abelard read aloud to him, from Cicero, Boethius, Ecclesiastes, and finally, he’d miss helping Abelard write his letters to Heloise. In John’s own mind, these letters were Abelard’s greatest “works” and his most tragic. The world would never know his teacher’s most private thoughts. Only he had been privy to them, and as he looked at Abelard’s placid sleeping features, he knew that he would come back to him again, in December, and yet again, perhaps months or years later. He’d always come back to see Abelard no matter where he was in the world. 

John had been in wars, fighting for his life and defending his fellow soldiers. Yet, here was one of the bravest men he’d ever known, fighting with the weapons of his intellect, against the narrow-mindedness of the Church and state. John had a foreshadowing of worse times to come for his mentor. He knew how the King and the Church of Rome dealt with men like Abelard. They were silenced, demoted, sometimes forced to burn their own works as punishment for radical ideas. Some were forced to penal colonies off the coast of Spain and branded like animals to identify them if they escaped. 

After several minutes had passed and he heard his teacher begin to snore softly, John walked down the narrow hallway to his own cell, unlocked the door, and prepared for bed himself. He quickly lay on the simple cot and could hear the soft clatter of pots being washed. Grateful for the soup dinner, and for his teacher’s influence in his life, he fell into a sound sleep...

December 1137: Paris reunion with Abelard

John walked quickly towards the Pantheon, wrapping himself tightly with his cloak, as the gusty December winds whipped through the narrow streets of Paris. The Seine had a thin layer of ice on its banks and though it was mid-morning, it seemed as if it was the fourth hour. Anxious to greet his teacher, he nearly ran uphill towards the school. He reached the front gates and one of the older instructors. Friar Honore, recognized him immediately.

“Monsieur Jean de Bretagne! It is good to see you again - when did you arrive in Paris?” he shook John’s hand vigorously, as he excitedly addressed him by his nickname for “Britain”. 

“Only early last evening, Friar Honore. How has my teacher been faring these past few months in my absence?” John asked him without fanfare. He noticed a slight pause, a quick look at the ground by the elder teacher. Stammering embarrassedly he continued:

“Master Abelard is — is in his cell now. He has been temporarily assigned to the task of interviewing the prospective students who are coming here from more remote parts of Europe. “ John looked at him levelly, and wanted to know more. Yet, something in the man’s hesitancy to reveal more caused John to feel his shoulders tense and he braced his emotions ahead of time, which meant that the news would not be favorable. He bid the friar adieu and wished him “Godspeed”. 

John quickly walked past the school, past the garden, and hurried inside the dormitory, directly in search of Abelard. His steeled his emotions to prepare for what he would know soon. His worst fears — Abelard was in bad standing with the school and the clergy. He had gone too far…

Abelard heard footsteps outside his cell just then. Thinking it was Friar Francois with his morning loaf of bread and hot tea, he began to go to the door with his bread basket and stooped down to open the little trap door to slide his empty basket through. He heard the basket being filled and passed through to him once more. To his surprise, he looked at what was inside: a scroll of paper tied neatly with twine. Beside it, there was something round wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. Abelard’s heart suddenly raced. Could it be? He opened the door quickly and standing there, half hidden under his hood, stood John. Waves of happiness filled Abelard’s heart at the sight of his friend!

“John! You’ve returned to me — you didn’t forget your old teacher!” he exclaimed, as John entered and in a flurry of motion, found himself being embraced by his protege. The lonely months dissolved as John squeezed his upper shoulders tightly.

Embarrassed at his own unaccustomed display of emotion, John gently disengaged from Abelard, and stood back to look at him then. He scrutinized him from head to toe in silence.

To his surprise and distress, he saw that Abelard was looking paler and more fatigued. His hair had grown longer, and he appeared thinner. Dark circles ringed his sharp blue eyes now, which momentarily saddened him.

“ Pierre- have you been eating and sleeping well since I’ve been away?” he asked worriedly. Abelard knew he would ask these direct questions as soon as he saw him. He couldn’t bear to answer to him just now. His pupil had just come from nearly two days’ journey and looked fatigued himself, Abelard surmised. 

“You know your teacher well, do you not? I sleep as well as expected these days — I beg you to sit and have some warm drink first.” Abelard searched for another cup for hot tea and some raisin cakes from yesterday’s breakfast. 

John removed his heavy cloak, hooking it on the door, and Abelard noticed John’s changed appearance: a white tunic and fitted black trousers, which the students always wore in Chartres. It was a uniform of the school which created a sense of equality among its ranks. He would have to recommend such attire before the first of the students arrived soon. He also noticed that John’s hair had grown slightly longer and that he had a very light beard now. There was a faint scent of chamomile on his clothing. Perhaps he was overworked the past months? 

John offered him the round packet to open first. It had a slight aroma and felt finely packed against fingers. He thanked John and hurried to untie the string: His eyes widened in astonishment as he saw the small package of rare tea from Japan. Where on earth did John find such a rarity? 

“Master- I was able to find this special brand in a small tea shop establishment just outside of Rheims on the route back to Paris. I was assured that it was of a very light green leaf, especially grown during the springtime in Japan.” John announced rather proudly as he saw the delighted expression on Abelard’s face.

“And I will boil water at once, so that we have share this together, John! It’s only December yet the biting chill is already here and you must not become ill!” Abelard scolded him as he rose to boil water. As they waited for the water to boil, John unraveled the scroll for his teacher to see.

“This is my newest thesis I have just completed last week and I fervently wish you to read it when you have some free time.” John handed him the scroll and saw Abelard’s growing interest. 

“Ah, political thought! Why, this is a subject you have not written of yet!” Abelard read the first few lines aloud to himself. “ … after researching the many branches of the government under the King’s rule, it is apparent that the various branches must interact fairly…. “ The water had come to a boil and John rose to find Abelard’s clay cups, at their usual place. Abelard gazed fondly at his young friend, as he thoroughly cleaned out the clay mugs before pouring the boiling water, realizing how much he had missed his manner of fretting over him, after such a long absence. Also, he saw that the past two months at Chartres had been a good decision. There was a new confidence to John's manner and he appeared well fed and energetic. Abelard wondered whether he was staying at his old room again at Rossignol. 

They sipped the exotic brew, conversed about their daily goings-on and Abelard once asked John whether he had done any carousing through the streets of Chartres, even though he knew what his answer would be. 

“I am afraid I hadn’t the time for such diversions, as the instructors at Chartres are even more stern than the ones here, and penalties for latecomers and not as stringent as they are here.” John’s accented French was a delight to hear once again. Abelard had been lonely and had missed John more than he cared to admit. His peers were becoming worse by the week, and many of his old colleagues shunned him now as he walked about the school grounds. He knew what this meant: that he was falling out of favor here at Notre Dame very, very quickly. John had to be prepared — to be told about this, as he may have to remain permanently at Chartres if John did not want another instructor at Notre Dame besides himself. 

The hours rapidly went by as Abelard and John briefly reviewed some of the theses which Abelard had saved for him to comment upon and perhaps, grade, upon his return. They walked through the garden where Abelard showed him the first winter berries and John heard the familiar chapel bells ring for the noonday Angelus. They ate the leek and potato soup which Friar Francois had prepared last night, which Abelard had hardly eaten. John nearly ate all of the fresh bread, having longed for the crusty loaf in Chartres. They walked to the chapel, where Abelard showed John the newly painted stained glass which John admired immensely. It was a brilliant indigo, yellow and red pattern which resembled the petals of a rose, mingled with star shaped patterns.

At the fourth hour, they had finished reviewing the new students’ theses, and John noticed that the late afternoon light was quickly waning. Abelard offered John his customary room, once it was freshly cleaned and prepared for him. John accepted his teacher’s offer as he still had not changed in his dislike for night walking through Paris. Chartres was a quiet, provincial town and the residents there retired much earlier than in Paris, to John’s liking. 

“John your room is ready and Friar Francois has saved some bread and a vegetable potage for you should you become hungry during the night.” Abelard gestured towards the friar walking ahead of them with John’s tray, as he walked John to his room. 

“Kindest thanks Friar Francois. It was a very long journey and I had stopped somewhere along the way, prolonging it even more.’ John confessed.

“Oh, where did you stop? Perhaps at Rheims?” Abelard asked quickly as John placed the food on the wooden desk in his clean room and draped his heavy cloak over the chair. 

“No Master, I stopped elsewhere.” was John’s vague reply. John did not know when he should tell his teacher where he stopped. The hour was getting late and that would be a very long conversation indeed. 

Abelard noticed the delayed reply, and growing a little fatigued himself, decided to take the subject up tomorrow, when both had rested. John was grateful that he left him alone without asking further. Quietly shutting the door, he began to undress and retire for the night. 

John rose during the middle of the night out of a sound sleep: he was thirsty and remembered that he had forgotten to ask Abelard for a pitcher of water. Leaving his room, he walked down to the end of the hall to the water barrel and began to fill his pitcher. He passed by his teacher’s room and saw the light under his door. He was awake again, perhaps reading, he supposed. He head pacing, and a chair moving across the stone floor. John knocked softly and heard Abelard’s peep hole opening, saw his teacher’s eye squinting through it. Then he opened the door a little. 

“John, are you awake at this hour? Come in please!” Abelard whispered urgently as he led John inside. John walked to the chair and Abelard saw John perhaps for the first time, in night clothes. John noticed the lantern was out, and hurried to light it for warmth.

After doing so, John disputed in his mind whether he should bring up the details of his stop on his journey towards Paris. Abelard may yet remain completely awake for the rest of the night after telling him. He decided not to do so, and would wait until both were refreshed from a good nights’ sleep. Abelard gestured for John to sit at his desk as he walked to his bed. Pulling up his mattress, he pulled out a small bundle wrapped in burlap. Untying it, he placed its contents — a handful of letters. As he pushed them along the table, John noticed a familiar, smallish handwriting, delicately and lightly penned. They were so familiar, as he’d read and re-read some of them for Abelard. They were Heloise’s letters … he was confused now. Abelard had told him several months ago that she’d stopped writing. They had had some sort of disagreement. When did he receive these? Abelard noticed Johns questioning look, and before he could voice those questions, he explained away:

“This is why I cannot sleep, John. These letters were received by me only three days ago. Apparently there had been either very bad weather at Argentueil or the courier was delayed on his route here.” Abelard shrugged his shoulders. 

“You may read them if you like, either here, or in your room, whichever you choose. You also, do not look in the least able to sleep.” Abelard huffed as he sat down across from John. 

John nodded and began reading: “ — I salute you in affectionate and sisterly greetings, and pray you are in good health in body and mind… the most dreadfully rainy weather here with the rainfall so high that the Seine has turned a murky brown color.” John read another few paragraphs of generalities and then stopped for a moment. He pondered whether he should speak now. He read on, and his attention was piqued as he read the next few lines:

“… I have of late, thought in a new manner, of how I am to reconcile myself to my fate here, as you well know, I never intended to take the veil as a voluntary vocation. Yet, various events recently, have caused me to reflect on a more rational course of action.” John paused to look up at Abelard, anxiously waiting for his response.

“I am very happy that you have finally heard from your wife as I know you are.” John slowly chose his words. 

“And yes, the weather was very rainy on my way back to Paris and I was detained for two nights.” he continued even more slowly, as he hovered between revealing what he wanted to say or to allow Abelard to accept Heloise’s words and leave it to fate. 

Abelard breathed out a soundless “ahhh -“ in agreement. 

John read silently, affirming to himself what he knew to be true. As Heloise’s words and thoughts entered his consciousness, his memories transported him back… 


	8. "Of The Meeting Between John and Heloise"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter begins with John's recollection of his meeting with Heloise, three nights ago before his reunion with Abelard. Both have a very candid conversation and reveal some of their pasts to each other. John is a good influence on Heloise's troubled soul. Heloise ends her conversation with John, with a very important request. After John keeps Abelard company in his room, he returns to his room to sleep and with a future plan in mind in his dealings with Heloise.

Ch. 8

“Of the Meeting Between John and Heloise”

 

(John’s recollection)

… back to three nights ago, to a dirt road alongside the Seine, in the town of Ferreux-Quincey, where his horse and carriage driver left him at the entrance of the Benedictine monastery called Paraclete. The sounds of the nuns chanting their evening Office, some local young women leaving the garden before nightfall, carrying baskets of lettuce, fennel and barley towards the pantry room. A young novice leading him to a simply furnished cell, where a woman sat, head turned in profile, the dark blonde curls escaping from her loose veil, and as he stood by the doorway, unsure of entering before being spoken to, he waited, and then the woman turned to face him. 

“May I help you, sir? To what honor do I owe this unexpected visit?” her voice, clear and musical, a pair of large, light hazel-green eyes watching him in interest. They widened with interest, as she studied him carefully.

“I am John of Salisbury, a student at the Notre Dame University school, under the tutelage of Pierre Abelard.” John said in his best french, attempting to disguise his accent. 

“I am the Abbess Heloise, of this monastery, named the Paraclete.” she smiled a little, noticing his unusual french pronunciation. To his surprise, she added, 

“Yes, I have heard of you, through the letters of Abelard. He has spoken of you most kindly, many times.” she gestured for him to enter and sit. She asked him of his studies at Chartres, which she knew of, and whether he had heard word from his family in England. Touched by her concern and welcoming manner, she eased his mind, which was fatigued and unsettled by his rain-soaked journey. 

“You are welcome to stay at our simple accommodations, until the weather clears and you can safely continue on to Paris.” Heloise took a small clay mug from her shelf, filled it with hot cider and offered it and a small plate of bread and cheese to the weary traveler. 

John watched in fascination as Heloise removed her veil, placing it over her bed frame. From behind, her blonde hair was loose to her shoulders, slightly curly, and as she turned to face him again, he realized how young she still was, when unveiled. Not more than thirty or close to that, he surmised to himself. A still beautiful woman in the prime of life, still able to have more children… he remembered the first time Abelard told him that he had a son named Astrolabe, born in secret, and taken to Heloise’s sister and husband, to be raised by them. He remembered Abelard telling him that she did not want him to be burdened by children, fatherhood and the trials of domestic life, that he was destined for greater things. 

He had only planned to spend at most three quarters of an hour with her, in order to meet her, deliver some of Abelard’s letters, and speak to her about the mounting attacks by his adversaries on his works and reputation. An hour, two hours went by, as Heloise revealed her view of the events of their tragedy, the losses of her husband, her newborn son, the disgrace she brought to her own family, and her crushing loneliness forced to live " in this spiritual prison, which I daily profane with my thoughts.” John saw her shame, her embarrassment, her heartbreaking years of loneliness being shut away since her early adulthood. He saw the premature lines around her eyes and mouth, her pale countenance and the myriad of books which lined her shelves. Abelard had called her “a woman with a man’s mind for logic and letters.” 

John spent two nights at the monastery, meeting with Heloise whenever she was free from her duties. He told her in as direct a manner, with emphasis, that she was to try her best to be a calm source of spiritual strength for Abelard. He confessed to her that his days appeared numbered as a prominent scholar at Notre Dame. He gave her a true picture of Abelard’s current state of mind: his brilliance, undisputed skills at debate in logic, metaphysics, principles of universals and his current thesis on the Trinity, which was almost sure to bring him to the Church’s unwelcome scrutiny. 

On the last night, he told her of his long-ago experiences in the Crusades, the finding of the True Cross, his mystical experience and his own loss of his young love Jane. He did not tell her of his horrendous calamity. It was not a subject suited to a woman’s delicate sensitivities. He remembered the way she gazed at him, approvingly, yet silent, as decorum demanded. Her only comment was,

“You are still young, and perhaps someday, you may find your soul’s other half.” she said with a twinge of sadness, looking down at her pale, slender hands. 

“I found mine in Pierre. He is still my husband, but only in spirit now, as bodily, we cannot ever reunite again in this life. Give him this message.” she sat up straighter, her voice firm now.

“Tell him that upon his death, I will bury him here at the Paraclete. And when I die, —“ she swallowed and looked at John solemnly as she continued.

“I wish to be buried beside him. That is when we will finally be reunited forever. And history will look upon us always, as the lovers separated tragically in life, but eternally reunited in death.” 

(End of John’s recollection)

*****************************

(The present time) 

John finished reading and placed the letters back into their thin envelopes. He felt a sense of relief, peace even. She had taken John's advice to offer Abelard solace by finally accepting her “vocation”, asking Abelard to do the same, and that she would trouble him no more on her distresses. John read the calm reassurances and knew that it had cost her a great deal to write such letters now. Yet, it was the only way for both now, or else, they would both go insane with unrequited love and longing. 

“I believe Heloise has finally brought me great relief with these letters.” Abelard sighed, as he rose to place the bundle back underneath his mattress. He walked to the window, looking out into the moonlit landscape. He saw the foggy clouds racing east, and in their wispy shapes, saw Heloise’s hair blowing in the wind. Years apart now, he was forgetting some of the minute memories of her, but he remembered the sweeping ones, the ones filled with overwhelming oneness. Tragedy in separation made by man’s laws, by the Church’s design ultimately. He had his career at the expense of his one love and the one child they had together. Some people never find true love in their lifetimes. So be it, this spiritual union now. They had burned the candle at both ends, satisfying their fleshly desires. The desires of the spirit would cause no more sin, no more tragedy, and perhaps, they would find their peace in that. 

As John saw the features on his teacher’s face setting down, he sensed that Heloise achieved the impossible. John decided that he would write her soon, to thank her and to continue her good work upon the man who was still her husband under the law. John excused himself finally, fatigue finally overtaking him, and quietly returned to his room. Tomorrow, he would suggest a walk after breakfast. Abelard had mentioned once that in winter, there were marketplaces along the Seine, which offered mulled wine, freshly baked paper thin crescent shaped pastries with tiny raisins, and rare fruits from the hot climes of Spain and Morocco. With that novel plan in mind, John soon fell asleep.


	9. "Of The Golden Apricots from Granada and Green Tea"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abelard and John are caught in a downpour while at the marketplace near the Paris School. They return to Abelard's cell: As Abelard prepares green tea and John unwraps a parcel of apricots from the market, John tells Abelard of his meeting with Heloise at the Paraclete monastery. The conversation turns from Heloise to both mens' friendship. The lightheartedness of falling apricots, tea leaves, and clumsiness takes a hugely revealing turn..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***WARNING*** GRAPHICALLY EXPLICIT, VIOLENT FLASHBACKS
> 
> Extensive research done by the author of 11-14th Century Knights Templar Crusaders history and military campaigns in the Holy Land, which revealed acts of barbarity such as described in this chapter on BOTH sides. This is a fictional story and the scene described was to create a tragic past for John, and not intended in any way to condemn a people, country or a faith group. Thank you.

Ch. 9

“Of the Golden Apricots from Granada and Green Tea”

The next morning:

The steady rain became a downpour, as John and Abelard began to run past the tents on the banks of the Seine, uphill towards the school. Knowing that Abelard easily caught cold, John quickly covered his chest with his large black cloak, immediately thankful that his mother reminded him to bring his heavier coat to France instead of his Sunday coat. 

Together, in step, they ran across the garden through the arched passageway, and up the stone steps to Abelard’s room. They dropped their wet parcels on the floor, quickly removing their wet cloaks and shoes. Abelard went to the stove to boil water for tea. John noticed that he was opening the package of green tea he’d brought him from Chartres.

“When was the last time I so thoroughly enjoyed a rain storm?” Abelard exclaimed with a rare, robust laugh. 

“Reminded me of the times my father and I would run from his clerk’s office to home in the dismal rain England’s famous for.” John added fondly, and then stopped short, as he hadn’t spoken of his father at all to Abelard. Hence, Abelard’s slight pause while pouring the tea leave into the kettle. 

"Here!— some rags to dry us.” John reached for them on the door hook. Without asking, or even thinking, he began to dry Abelard’s wet neck, as his long hair was dripping now. Abelard stood still, as John dried him off. John was much taller than he and easily saw the wet trails on the back of his shirt. He felt John’s thorough, strong hands drying his upper back and felt an inexplicable rush of sensations and thoughts just then. When was the last time someone, anyone, touched him on his body? He had felt untouchable for so long — Heloise and he last touched almost ten years ago, as they kissed and embraced before she entered the convent. Then, the horror happened, and he allowed no one to touch him again. He did not let anyone touch him, except the doctors and Heloise’s old midwife who tenderly stitched him up as he lay semi-conscious after being given a massive dose of camphor. His only consolation was knowing that they had executed the same heinous deed upon his attackers, and Fulbert was publicly disgraced for instigating Abelard’s punishment. 

His senses snapped back once more to the present, as he felt John drying him underneath his shoulders. Abelard untied his wet shirt, which clung to him uncomfortably. 

“This is as wet as grass!” Abelard muttered disagreeably as he finally pulled his shirt off. Standing bare chested and cold in the middle of his room, the kettle began to whistle. He moved away from John to tend to it, again muttering,

“Hot tea would do me good after all that cold rain!” He poured the tea into two mugs and as he turned around, he saw a sight which nearly made him drop the hot mugs. There stood John, also bare chested, drying himself off, his wet arms and chest were a pitiful crisscross of scars from old wounds. Abelard almost gasped aloud as he saw a large whitened slash wound over his right abdomen. John was unaware of Abelard’s shock over seeing his wounds as his head was down, intent on drying his wet trousers. An unbidden thought suddenly sprang to Abelard’s mind: What woman would steal Heaven to lie with a man as beautifully formed as John? Scars be dammed! And I daresay, — what man would? The though shocked Abelard profoundly. Where did that thought come from? Had he gone mad? 

He felt a sudden stirring in the pit of his stomach, and God forgive him, a stirring where now, was nothing at all to be stirred! Nothing there behind his male organ but scars and a gaping emptiness! Yet, he felt an undeniable desire in his very loins as he watched John drying his long egs and marveled at his well muscled arms, the trimness of his waist and — he dared not look any lower! John stood upright again, and if he saw Abelard’s reddened countenance, he said nothing. He saw Abelard gazing at him with an odd expression. He’d seen that look on some of the soldiers during the Crusades, as they looked upon him, while he bathed, or dressed for battle. The celibate ones who had wives or mistresses had the greatest difficulty remaining so, and he’d heard the rumors of men walking into the Palestinian desert in pairs or threes. John buried his face and hair into the large cloth to dry his hair, to hide his own flushing cheeks and to allow Abelard to compose himself. 

As John hung his wet shirt over the door hook, Abelard hurried to search for dry clothing underneath his cot. John brought the wet parcels of fruit and other foodstuffs from the market place. He carefully shook out the ripe light peach colored apricots on the table, hearing the sliding sounds of Abelard’s wooden chest under his cot. Abelard returned with two clean shirts and John stood up again. 

“I’m afraid my hair is still quite wet and I rather prefer to let it dry for a few minutes before I re-dress.” John confessed. Abelard shook his head, chuckling,

“You were always one to fret over your hair in your early months here!” Abelard retorted, turning his face aside, to hide his reddened cheeks. 

Abelard placed the clean, dry shirt for John over the back of his chair and let him sit as bare chested, as he wished As he poured tea, his gaze remained discreetly fixed on the fruit as he began asking John about the details of his journey to Paris.

“Oh, yes —“ John began in his clipped French accent. “I left Chartres five days ago and on the way I stopped to rest for two nights in a quaint town along the Seine. I went straightaway to a small monastery which was in Ferreux-Quincey.” John paused as Abelard suddenly put his tea down and looked him full in the face. 

“I was unaware at the time exactly what the name of the monastery was. There was a convent adjoining it as well. I was greeted at the door and told that the establishment was called the “Paraclete”. “ John paused again, as Abelard leaned forward with acute interest.

“I recalled then, that you had mentioned to me several weeks ago, that you had an affiliation with a monastery-convent of the same name. I had the inclination then to enter and meet the Abbot or Abbess. I was led to a room, where to my great surprise, I was greeted by the Abbess of the convent, —your Heloise.” John took a drink of hot tea and its grassy, fresh aroma soothed his spirits. 

“You finally — met Heloise?” Abelard asked incredulously. He could barely contain his curiosity. He had questions to last for hours, if John could answer them! 

“Yes I did, Master. I finally met her and saw her with my own eyes. “John leaned back and closed his eyes, attempting to gather his thoughts. He wanted to soothe his friend’s loneliness, all the anxieties he had for his long estranged wife, and he wanted to choose the most well thought out words to describe her.

“ Heloise was very gracious and welcoming and promptly invited me to stay as long as I liked until the weather fared better for travel. She told me that she was an Abbess now and was chosen by her superiors, for her gifts and temperament. “ He saw Abelard smile at his accurate description. John nodded in assent and continued.

“I only thought to stay three quarters of an hour, but the time had flown by, as the young people say these days… I found myself conversing with her for several hours, and she was most concerned for your well being, your health, your intellectual pursuits these days, your relations with the school, in fact, everything pertaining to you. I had the distinct impression that she was a most capable abbess, yet, her foremost thoughts were always of you.” John paused, looking down into his tea. Abelard put his hand over his eyes then, sighed deeply and turned his face away. They were both silent for long moments. 

“I personally gave her the small handful of letters which you had given me before I left for Chartres. She was extremely happy upon receiving word from you. She had sent you three letters several months ago and had not heard from you. She always fears that you are being deposed of your teaching position.” 

“Yes, my wife knows me so well. She knows my indefatigable penchant for debate and my pride as my two worst faults.” Abelard confessed. 

“Well she knows those character traits. Yet, she still would not have you any other way. She said that she was first drawn to you because of your intellect and flawless logic and debate. She recalled many debates between you, which often ended in her finally realizing that you had been correct all along.” 

“She flatters me too much, I’m afraid. It was actually I who could not convince her to my way of thinking.” Abelard sighed, sadly, wishing for five minutes of debate with her, and would gladly acquiesce to her a thousand times, if only he could undo all of his selfish actions. Did he ever tell John that he actually seduced her, was the aggressor, and she, the preserver of her purity? That she finally submitted to his seducing, and then grew to willingly give herself to him and fall into perdition of the senses with him? 

John still sat, shirtless, listening intently. He was a little tired of speaking so long, as it was not his nature. For no reason at all, Abelard noticed that John’s hair was nearly dry now and silently offered him one of the dry shirts. John gratefully draped it over his chilled shoulders. 

“My lady Jane was not as intellectually gifted. But she had a sense for people’s motives, and could sniff a liar a mile away. She saved me many times from being taken advantage of, in my younger days working as a clerk in my father’s office.” John confided.

“It was a privilege to meet Heloise. I can see why you both were fated to meet and marry.” John suddenly added in his concise and heartfelt manner. Abelard was warmed through and through, nodding appreciatively. 

“Perhaps we too, were fated to meet John.” Abelard looked suddenly thoughtful.

"I am famous throughout the schools of Europe, yet, I have very few close confidants. Heloise was my closest confidant, and she still is, in some ways. Yet, among my contemporaries, I struggle to find like minded, impartial men of pure good will towards me. Trust is a rare commodity in these times…” Abelard’s voice trailed off, as he slowly poured another cup of tea. 

“These apricots here…” John took one in his hands and turned it several times, rubbing it softly.

“They too are a rare commodity here in winter. Very difficult to find but once you find them, you treasure every moment that you can savor them.” John rubbed its smooth, shiny surface, feeling the velvety fuzz of its skin. 

“As rare as good friends who trust one another.” Abelard concluded, understanding John’s point with the humble fruit. 

“Thank you for trusting me with Heloise’s letters, in reading their contents, and in delivering them to her. If I can be of any more assistance…” John began to ask, but his voice failed him, as he recalled the tragedy which had torn the two asunder. 

“You have helped me — us, more than you know. Already my mind is at ease that she has accepted the circumstances of her life, as I’ve had to accept mine.” Abelard stood up to prepare more boiling water and suddenly wanted to re-dress himself in the other dry shirt which still hung behind his chair. He suddenly felt one of his heat flashes, rising from his abdomen up to his neck and spread over his arms, and a thin sheen of sweat cover his skin. As he reached for the tea, the packet slipped from his grip and fell to the floor, and some of the preciously expensive leaves spilled around his feet. 

“Ah! I’m so sorry John… this is unfortunate! Such an expensive tea and I in my clumsiness!”  
Abelard began to rush about to look for his broom. John immediately rose and squatting, he began to carefully gather the leaves and placed them onto an empty plate. 

“Just stand and be still, Master, while I gather this small pile of leaves here.” John pleaded as he circled around Abelard’s lower legs, scooping and saving the portions onto the plate. Abelard looked down at John and silently thanked God for young men whose knees could still bend and squat, something he had difficulty doing, ever since his fortieth year. He felt John brushing his lower legs, apparently the fine tea powder had settled on his trousers. Abelard’s mind reeled as he recalled a familiar memory, — of Heloise brushing his legs in the same way, sometimes when he returned from walking along the dusty roads and she was all too eager to climb into her bed with him…

He looked at John, still squatting beneath him, busily creating order again. John looked up to see his teacher looking at him strangely once again. Had he said something amiss about he and Heloise? John suddenly reddened with embarrassment. John extended his arm behind him to place the plate of tea on the table, and accidentally, some of the apricots rolled off the table and landed on the floor. John saw Abelard bending down to pick them up and John was on his knees, reaching for them as they rolled under the table. Abelard almost tripped over John’s long legs, as he stepped over him, and John instantly sprang up to catch him, before he fell. Abelard felt John’s strong arms catching him as he muttered an expletive under his breath. 

“What a bloody mess we are today!” he heard John mutter with unaccustomed vehemence, as he held onto his teacher, attempting to stand up, but Abelard was still off balance. 

“Thank you, my friend! Once again, you have saved me…” Abelard panted into John’s shoulder, and he was suddenly lightheaded. A strange heat suffused his face, as he smelled the vanilla-like scent of John’s skin. 

John felt his teacher’s breathing on his chest and an overpowering urge to protect his older friend swept over him. In the weeks and months after his return from battle, his mother used to say, “St. Michael’s wings touched you the day you were born John. You were meant to be a warrior like him, not a clerk.” As if his friend read his thoughts, Abelard raised his gaze upwards to look at John, musing, 

“Sometimes, I wish I could have seen you in full battle armor. Sometimes I wonder if you were meant for the academic life. Yet, you excel at both and I have a glimpse of your strength now.” Abelard sounded foolish to his own ears, but he went on. 

“My father was a knight, and groomed me to follow in his footsteps, yet, it was not to be. He saw my genius and sent me to the best schools instead.”

“You debate like a warrior though. No one can surpass you in debate.” John admitted modestly. 

They still gripped one another for support, still half kneeling surrounded by newly bruised apricots, now forgotten. Abelard saw the devotion in John’s expression and it was in that moment that he realized, that his young student, protege and now trusted friend, was the friend he had always sought. He would someday become a great man among men of their age. He had many gifts, many talents, and secret sorrows like himself, and that brought them together in a powerful bond.

“I am not a man like most men! Yet, in the eyes of the law and God, I still have a wife. Such an cruel irony!” Abelard’s voice trembled in despair as he looked away in shame and tried to rise on his feet. 

“Don’t torture yourself any longer!” John shook Abelard's shoulders firmly. 

“I AM tortured John! My thoughts are always of — of the past, of the delights Heloise and I shared, everything known to man and woman, we virgin lovers dared to do! Yet, my body no longer can … “ he slammed his fists against his knees and shut his eyes painfully. And I really shut my eyes because YOU John! You have been in my thoughts too! Abelard thought miserably. John felt a sharp stab of grief for him, for the terrible injustice of it all.

Abelard stopped speaking then, as he looked into John’s eyes. They were casting a maddening spell over him. Eyes that beckoned and hid. Oh, the devil take him now! They were still clumsily half kneeling, facing one another. John reached down for a stray apricot near Abelard’s knee, picked it up gently, then he picked up another one beside his other knee. Holding them in his hands, he looked at them for a moment. Abelard looked at the bruised fruit too, swallowing hard, noticing suddenly for the first time, how beautiful John’s hands were, his slender fingers gently holding the small apricots. A fleeting thought entered his mind: how had such elegantly formed hands fight with a sword and shield during the Crusades, without being roughened or scarred by battle? A sudden flush rose to his cheeks, as he continued gazing at John's hands. John felt the words come from him as if he were transported to the past once again. 

“You do not know what your body can still do, Pierre. During the wars, I had heard of tales and also with mine own eyes, seen some of the desert soldier-monks, called the White Ones, who self-mutilated their bodies for chastity’s sake, and thought all was forever hopeless with their physical state, only to find that if they did a poor feat of it, that they were still somewhat — functional men.” John stopped speaking, suddenly concerned whether his explanation was hurting his teacher’s feelings. When Abelard listened with wide-eyed interest, John became emboldened to go on.  
He then made a shocking confession with his next words:

“Dear Pierre, favored teacher, I I tried to do that very act, after my Lady Jane died and I went off to war again for a short time. I swore celibacy to tame my passions and dedicate my whole being to the mission. Fate intervened when one of my soldiers walked into my quarters, and stopped me! He told me then, that if I had partially succeeded, I would still be able to function normally, yet have some — some problems with performing as adequately, but still physiologically intact to a degree.” Abelard was glancing sideways at him, listening to every word now. John rarely spoke of his past war memories. This was a man’s conversation of the utmost delicacy. 

Abelard had to tell him what was done to him, in more detail now. This was the time to speak once and for all. Shame or none at all, he would never have another chance. Taking a deep breath, he said in a shaking voice, 

“My dear friend, what —- what was done that night, I barely want to recall any longer! Yet, I know for certain, it — it was done to both testes, leaving the member intact …rendering it a useless appendage there! I still feel my nerves awakening, but I cannot complete …! ” Abelard looked away in extreme embarrassment, shocked at his own confession of his most secret calamity. 

John was too shocked and grieved to speak and he looked away also, to allow Abelard to recover his self-respect. John's spirit was crushed to hear of the atrocity done to his teacher. Abelard finally looked up and met his eyes. Thinking to see pity in them, he dared to look, and instead, he saw only the same embarrassed shame and he felt John squeeze his shoulder. A heavy weight seemed to lift from his heart and mind, having finally revealed his secret sorrow to another human being.

Abelard felt his proud nature begin to crumble and the sting of tears behind his eyes threatened to overwhelm him. John still held Abelard's shoulders firmly, but he began to slide his hands behind his teacher’s shoulder, in a light caress over his shoulder blades and neck. Abelard’s own hands began to mirror John’s in a tentative embrace.

Abelard’s mind reeled dizzily: Oh, God, what am I doing? Yet, —I DO want to do this! How I crave another’s touch! My body is stirring there, where there is nothing! For John, and not Heloise! The stirring rose up across his lower abdomen, in his gut and a flash of body heat and sweat broke out over his chest and neck while John’s hands gently stroked his back.

“You are complete enough in my eyes, Pierre.” John whispered with great feeling, against his teacher’s ear. 

Speechless, Abelard hung his head against John's shoulder. He heard John’s heart beating rapidly, erratically, felt his long hair brush against his face. The self-pride which was his armor for so long, finally gave way and he looked up at John then. In his eyes was a hint of shame, but also the unmistakable look of acceptance and unconditional love. He had seen that same look in Heloise so many times, especially after she had become pregnant before their secret marriage. The memory of her anguished yet defiant words came back to him: “I despair in my shame for my being with child out of wedlock, but my love for you overrides any shame i have!” 

Guilt filled him once again, remembering that it was he, that sped her away to the convent to take the veil. Gone was his opportunity to live as a normal man and husband! Only John remained…his truest friend and loyal champion. 

Humbled to his depths, Abelard buried his head into John’s warm chest and nearly felt like sobbing with relief. His young friend accepted him as he was, a mutilated, older man! Why? John was exceedingly comely and he could have his pick of any woman! Yet, he said, “ you are complete enough in my eyes.” What did he see in him that others did not? 

In that moment, Abelard realized that the stirrings in his body were truly for John. It had been so, for almost a year now, ever since John first took his seat in the Oratory. He had sublimated his errant desires under the guise of “mentorship” and he had almost convinced himself that it was so….except, when the lonely nights assailed him, and he saw John’s countenance in the four corners of his lonely cell, heard his low, patient voice, lulling him to sleep, recalled his eyes, so full of mysteries to be revealed someday,…

John held him close, his own heart beating erratically. This was the moment that he must tell Abelard about his past, his secret shame, which only his mother had known about. He stared into the flames behind Abelard’s head. In a dry, cracked voice he began his tragic tale:

“Pierre, there is something I must tell you… that you have never known of my past during the Crusades…” he began uncertainly.

Abelard was alarmed at John’s sudden seriousness. John sat him down before speaking further and folding his trembling hands tightly together, he went on.

“What — what happened after we found the relics of the True Cross, the Saracens surrounded me and captured me. They took me in chains to their commander’s tents…” he paused, turning his face away from Abelard, eyes dulled, his countenance becoming pale with panic.

“I was betrayed by one of my sergeants, a mercenary disguised as one of us. The Saracens captured me, and took me to their commander’s tent.” Abelard began to feel dizzy with fear at what revelation was to follow.

“They stripped me of my armor, and cut the bundle tied to my waist, where the relics were… thus, my scars there…” his voice trailed off and his eyes stared dully at the fireplace behind Abelard. In the center of the flames burned the evil memories he had kept at bay in his mind for so long…

(John's recollection) *** WARNING: GRAPHICALLY EXPLICIT, VIOLENT FLASHBACK

(The dark memory of the cold nighttime Palatine desert. War cries rising from the Saracens as their enemy battalions on horseback surrounded him on all sides. They had somehow found him alone and unprotected by his second knight. Where was he? He had suddenly abandoned him and their small group of excavators! The precious bundle of relics strapped to his abdomen underneath his tunic was what they wanted! The commander, led by mercenary spies within John’s own ranks, finally captured him after a prolonged chase… his painful fall from his horse as they grabbed him and bound by the spies he knew by name. They viciously rolled him off the horse and into the commander’s tent… unchained him and cut away the precious bundle across his abdomen, their sharp scythe-like knives bloodying his abdomen. One by one, the spies identified him as an enemy Templar knight. At this information, they stripped him. John would never give them any information about his brothers and vowed to die tonight. The mens’ laughter, hyena-like, as they circled their human prey. John prayed to the Lord of the precious True Cross, as he felt evil hands holding him down… more laughter, more prodding, more grabbing. He prayed for death before humiliation… more vile hands, a man behind him, laughter, prodding, pushing, searing pain, heavy bodies, blinding pain, more terror, more hands, more laughter, two times, four times, six… the commander’s voice this time, as they forced him to kneel before him, and humiliate himself; once, twice, more laughter, lewd jeers… someone praying and no one answering, crying, fainting…minutes, hours, more humiliation, more pain, demanding information about the relics’ original location, about his Grand Master Payens. John’s silence was his refusal to betray his brother knights. Infuriated, they tied his limbs with cords and pulled them apart. They returned in pairs, without pause. Their intent now was to kill him in this manner. John was broken but silent, obeying his Templar vows to the death. His violated body was now torn from his violated mind. The Light and the Voice were gone from his soul. The True Cross was a blackened void of nothingness, just like the void between his body and soul. John wanted Death to come for him now and had stopped crying and praying...

The sound of horses and knights skirmishing outside broke through his dulled spirit… sounds of familiar tongues from his brothers. They broke into the tent, killing all the infidels with a incendiary ball and chain, and hastily retrieved John’s precious relic bundle, wrapped in its red and white Crusader mantle. Horrified at seeing John tightly bound, one of his rescuers cut the cords around his ankles and thighs and pulled John out naked, slinging his limp body over a horse, and then galloping for their very lives, away, away from the Hell he had just been subjected to.

The Grand Master permitted him to leave the battlefront, and John returned to England, a changed man. Unreachable and silent, he took to his studies in complete isolation. He never consummated his love with his Lady Jane, as she had died from her illness before his return. Nor with anyone else thereafter. Only his mother knew of the horror of his rape and she never told his seriously ill father. With complete sorrowful understanding, she allowed her only son to attend the Paris school to study with Abelard, the famous man of his age.] 

“The Saracen commander, all of his men— they all— all night long, they committed unspeakable acts upon me.” John’s voice broke as he turned his face away from Abelard’s horrified expression. 

Gasping in wordless horror, Abelard instinctively embraced John tightly. John finally broke and released all that he had held inside since returning from the wars. His racking sobs filled the room and were heard above the din of the rolling thunder and rain. It tore at Abelard’s heart to hear such grief from such a strong man as John. Abelard's mind filled with the horrors of what he knew of the Saracens’ reputation for vicious sodomy and cruelty to the Templar knights. They were known for these acts, as they knew that the knights fought to the death, even during capture, preferring death to betrayal of any of their brothers. John was supremely fortunate to have been rescued! The agonizing minutes finally passed with the sounds of John’s grief abating, and Abelard’s soothing murmurs. Completely spent, John lay mutely, staring blankly at the rain soaked window pane. Abelard sat beside him, and finally broke the silence.

“Beloved friend, you and I, — both of us, have suffered greatly at the hands of evil men. You protected the holy relics with your very life, shedding your blood for our Lord’s sake. You never deserved the humiliation you endured! You, who are much braver than I, Abelard, whose prideful lust caused his own bodily ruin!  
I am supremely humbled and my miseries pale before your own.” Abelard hung his head low and was overcome with his old pangs of remorse and sorrow for his friend’s horrifying calamity.

John finally turned to face him and in his inarticulate manner, attempted to confess.

“I truly desire you Pierre, but I have been damaged beyond telling. I am locked in my mind and my body is trapped inside. I do not know how to heal myself.” John met his teacher’s eyes with immense sorrow. Abelard was deeply moved and vowed to speak only the truth. Contrary to women’s natures, men did not require the truth cushioned with softness, but to be spoken to directly without tiptoeing about delicate matters. 

“You are more dear to me now, more than you ever were, as you have willingly come to me tonight, not wishing to reveal this until the very last possible moment. ” he paused to collect his thoughts.

“I have no further reason to boast of my physical abilities. I am who I am now and forevermore. My damaged body is not even equal to your own, which is wholly intact and possesses the virility that I lack. It is still a wondrously magnificent body despite what has happened to it. “ he took John’s hand in his.

“I am a sensual man as you know and desperately want you. That, I cannot hide. Perhaps my mind is more capable than my body. But, if you cannot make love to me, I will not force you. I will wait until you are ready. But hear this: not only do I find your body most beautiful, but more than that, your heart and soul are. They have retained a purity which great evil could not erase.” Abelard exhaled deeply and waited for John to perceive his intentions.

His young friend sat, unmoving for several moments and then, he turned to face his teacher, his eyes clear and direct. 

“I am ready now Pierre…make love to me tonight.” John finally whispered unable to quiet the mad beating of his heart and brought his face closer to Abelard’s sensuous lips. John finally felt those lips upon his own at last. Abelard, so distinguished, charismatic and a man who made women’s heads turn in lovesick ruin, could bring him to the same ruin! 

Abelard kissed him with his eyes shut, at first, in embarrassed shame for his riotous desires, feeling the foreign sensation of a man’s face so near his own, the power and the seduction of it! 

“Do not fear, John — come near my bed, John! —“ he pulled the stunned younger man towards it. John’s hair was still wet from the rain, and his skin still chilled from the cold. His trousers and leggings were still soaked too. Abelard reached for a cloth on his night stand, and dipped it in his “lavage” basin. The waters had the scent of cinnamon, lavender and sage. Taking the soaked cloth, he began to pass it over John’s face and neck, and kissing him on his brows… John stood very still, as Abelard dipped the cloth again in the scented water basin, and again, Abelard wiped his shoulders and arms, and kissed the tightened muscles there. John trembled, as his teacher whispered,

“ Remove your trousers for me.” Abelard was rubbing the cloth over his chest, his breast, and John took in a sharp breath as his teacher’s lips found each one. John gasped and immediately removed his heavy, wet trousers. He stood only in his leggings now. Abelard’s eyes fell upon his finely shaped muscles, missing nothing and John was strangely excited to be the sole attention of another man’s gaze. This was all a dream! He felt the re-dipped cloth again, cool and refreshing, against his back muscles and over his abdomen, filled with fine scars. Abelard saw the scars, saying nothing, but he winced in silent horror. He passed the cloth over them slower, gentler, and pressed his lips on John’s ribs and abdomen. 

“I will lay on my bed and watch as you remove your leggings for me.” he stood upright again and walked backwards to the bed. He watched with bated breath as John slowly untied and rolled each of the leggings off. John dropped them on the floor near the bed. He stood before his teacher, naked as the day he was born. He fastened his eyes again on Abelard’s handsome face and watched him moistening his lips, knowing that his teacher wanted him. John saw his eyes lowering to look at his privies, and he felt his cheeks flush hotly. He averted his head, as Abelard murmured something unintelligible in his native Breton dialect. 

“Come near, John, for I do not believe my eyes, that you are standing here naked before me.” John hesitantly came towards Abelard, and felt his hand reach for his chest, felt the deft fingers caress his breast, his hip, and then, —lower, and his teacher’s gasp of delight as John closed his eyes and struggled to stand. 

“Ah, so my Crusader knight also desires me too?” Abelard’s seductive voice pierced John's brain. He could not stand composed for very long if Abelard continued in this manner! He realized that Abelard was a master of seduction and he needed to prepare for a very long night of supreme patience and stamina. He was as virginal in his late age as a twelve year old!

“I have never been with women before you, as you know —have mercy on me, master, if I am to last the night with you!” John pleaded with his face still averted. Abelard marveled at his words! He did not want to fail tonight in gratifying him! Abelard gazed hotly at all of John's full glory, and found himself sorely lacking. What did John find desirable in him, a half-man? Yet, he would move heaven and hell to heal John and also somehow find his own gratification tonight! 

“Come here, John and I will instruct you. Together, we will heal your body and your soul. Do not be afraid…come.” Abelard coaxed him, suddenly tender. 


	10. "Of Abelard's Instruction and John's Healing"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited love scene between Abelard and John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you readers, for hanging in there so patiently. It was a challenge to write because of Abelard's physical defects and John's scarred psyche, and to make it work physically and emotionally for both. Enjoy! "fans self"

Ch. 10 

“Of Abelard’s Instruction and John’s Healing”

As John stood beside the bed, Abelard reached for a small, clean cloth, and soaking it in the marble lavage basin on his night table, he wrung it and brought it to John’s face. It smelled of lavender, sage and vanilla. The scent calmed John as Abelard wiped his perspiring face. 

“You are my honored guest and a host always refreshes his guest after a long journey.” Abelard murmured as he caressed his chin with the soothing warm cloth. 

“A clean body produces a clean mind.” Abelard instructed, as he kissed John’s cheeks. He re-dipped the cloth into the soothing spiced water. He passed it over John’s tense shoulders and upper arms, exclaiming,

“Ah, these well-muscled arms should never hide within loose tunics!” John reddened as Abelard lavished praises and his lips followed where he had used the cloth. John sighed and relaxed his shoulders. Abelard re-soaked the cloth, and proceeded to pass it across his chest, stopping at each breast. 

“These scars across your chest, that my brave knight receive in battle, did they cause you much pain?” Abelard was suddenly tender. John opened his eyes again, looking directly at his teacher. Abelard saw a strange play of emotions in his expression: sadness and a hint of anger too. 

“Forgive me my question! —“ Abelard apologized quickly and diverted his attentions to resoaking the cooled cloth, and began to massage it over John’s back. John calmed again, and nodded. John would have to tell him… and soon. For the moment, he closed his eyes, as the scent of the vanilla intoxicated his senses.

He heard Abelard re-wet the cloth in another basin of warmer water. John opened his eyes and saw Abelard kneeling before him, cloth in hand, and felt the warmth of it over his tight ribs and abdomen. Abelard massaged it slowly over the multitude of fine, white scars crisscrossed over his tight skin. John tried to calm his mind against the torrent of suffocating emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He shut them behind a door in his mind labeled, “Do Not Enter.” 

“What a derriere you have, that should not be hidden in trousers!” Abelard exclaimed as he kneaded them in his hands before massaging them in circular motions. John clenched his thighs as Abelard squeezed them in delight. Abelard re-soaked the cooled cloth again, and with long strokes, he refreshed John's long legs, marveling at his strong, lean muscles. 

“And, these legs astride on horseback,— were I the fortunate animal to grace your power!” Abelard moistened his lips, as he stroked the cloth over his thighs, feeling the tension there. John trembled as Abelard drew closer to the source of his torment. Oh, how wretched a man is, knowing hardly anything of sex at his age! How like an unschooled young squire he must appear to his worldly teacher! John thought miserably as he fought for self-control. 

Yet, Abelard seemed oblivious to John’s inexperience and was so enamored by his body, which to John, in his chivalric training, was nothing to draw attention to. Abelard paused now, so close to his privies, and John held his breath. 

“What do you wish for, my Crusader knight? What is your secret desire that I may fulfill?” Abelard still paused, as he rose to his feet, gazing into John’s eyes. John’s face flushed hotly and he swayed dizzily. 

“I — I don’t know! I — oh, God! touch me!” he stammered incoherently. Abelard dropped the cloth instantly, and dipping his own hands in the cooling basin, he brought his dripping hands over John. The oil and spices filled John’s senses as his teacher’s hands tightened over his heated flesh. Never, never had he felt this sensation before! Abelard’s caressing and kissing brought him nearly to the brink, had it not been for him abruptly drawing his hands away. 

“Have mercy on me, Pierre! I need to last the night for you first!” John covered himself suddenly. Abelard gently removed his hand and hushed him.

“No, no —do not fret so!” he kissed John’s perspiring brow. 

“Your pleasure will be my pleasure, and nature works for good in that manner.” he added knowingly.

John nodded mutely as Abelard brought him down onto the bed underneath him.

“Tonight is the night of your healing… let me heal you dear friend.” Abelard softly whispered into John’s ear.  
He saw John's flushed countenance, the tormented desire in his eyes, and began to dip his hands again in the oiled water. John was clean bodily, on the outside. Now he set about to clean him from the inside. He sensed that John, being quite inarticulate, cherished loving words and gestures. Of both, he was master, as Heloise had said many times during their lovemaking. 

He kissed John’s brow, smoothing his long, dark hair, saying.

“Ah! — do you know how your eyes are such a mystery? How many times I averted my face from them in the Oratory, when you first came to study under me?” Abelard admitted at last. John stared at him in surprise at the revelation. 

“What have they seen in those far away lands where you have been? What are they thinking and seeing even now?” he kissed each one and then fastened his mouth on John’s. John felt Abelard’s warm body pressing against his and a wall began to crumble in his mind. John gave him his lips, his tongue, and the wall went on crumbling as Abelard’s kisses nearly brought him to the brink again. Abelard paused for breath, and watched John’s signs of mounting desire. Abelard proceeded most carefully now.  
He took John’s breasts in each hand, gently smoothing them with fresh oiled water again. He kissed each now, saying,

“When I first saw you in the Oratory, I noticed first, your shining crusader’s cross over your breast. I was intrigued by you… the way you bore yourself, with such confidence and I could not keep my mind on my lectures!” Abelard admitted another revelation. 

He looked at John, who was staring at him again in surprise, and Abelard detected a very slight smile. Inwardly encouraged, he kissed each breast, and to his surprise, John groaned in delight. Ah, — so his quiet knight loved this! Abelard was happy to oblige, and went on kissing them for several more moments, to John’s mounting delight. He re-dipped his hands in the oil again, and laid them on his abdomen, gently now, rubbing across the old, whitened scars there. So carefully, he placed his lips on them, kissing them wordlessly, recalling John’s tragic tale. He pictured the True Cross relics strapped to him, and another memory, of John’s triumph in finding them and guarding his sacred treasure with his life, riding at full speed through the desert. 

“How brave you were when you found your holy treasure, how you guarded it with your very life, never betraying your brothers. You are a better man than I am!” Abelard felt his eyes sting with tears and some of them fell on John’s scars. For the first time in minutes, John finally spoke.

“Do not be saddened Pierre! I was only doing my duty. That is what I vowed to do.” he touched his teacher’s wet cheek. 

“And that is why I love you, John.” Abelard murmured with great emotion as he went on dipping his hands again. He brought them over his lower legs, knees and began to massage them, feeling the strong, lean muscles, the fine fuzz of hair over his calves and sprinkled fresh oiled water over his thighs, He felt the tension in his muscles, and he thought of a younger man: riding on horseback through perilous deserts, a fearless Crusader Sergeant, in hand-to-hand combat on his feet, perhaps practicing the fabled warfare of the reclusive monks of China, the Shaolin. His father had once told him of these monk-warriors, who fasted, meditated and trained for battle 18 hours a day and slept little. Rumors abounded all over Europe that the mysterious Templar knights had fashioned their fearless combat tactics from the example of these Shaolin masters. 

He noticed more scars on the insides of his thighs, which he had not noticed before, jagged ones, almost as if he were cut by a blunt weapon. He shuddered to think of what else had befallen him on that horrifying night in captivity. He spoke in his native Breton, which John didn’t know, murmuring to himself, in disbelief.

“Poor John, what else did they do to you that hellish night?, he thought in anguish as his lips felt the wounds’ jagged edges. Did they spread your limbs like Jesus Himself, and defile your chaste body? How did you live on after the wars? Abelard paused to collect himself. 

Abelard went to the lavage basin quietly, and took out his cherished jar of oil containing a rare mixture of roses, lavender and frankincense. He poured the aromatic oil in his hands without water and brought it near John’s face for him to smell. John closed his eyes, as he luxuriated in the fragrant scent. 

“This was Heloise’s favorite oil … I have never used this again, since we parted years ago. You are the first and only one — to enjoy its fragrance again.” Abelard smoothed John’s cheeks with it, wishing for the demons in his mind to recede tonight. John was staring at his teacher in stunned amazement. He did not want him to waste this precious oil, which reminded him of his lost wife! 

“You mustn’t waste this oil on me then!” John began to protest, stopping Abelard’s hand.

“Dear friend, it is not a waste at all… but a gift to you that I give freely. You have filled the loneliness in my heart and have taken her place…” Abelard looked at John in all seriousness now. 

“Oh, God… I am not worthy.” John closed his eyes as he embraced his teacher tightly.

“Yes you are worthy. You have proven it to me. You have the courage of ten Templar knights, for you endured all and lived on to continue to defend the defenseless. I am one of those poor souls nowadays I am afraid.” Abelard smiled ruefully. John’s eyes widened as he thought of Abelard’s words, how true they were, that now Abelard was “defenseless” and that Abelard saw himself as one whom John still needed to defend. Yes, yes --- John had a reason to live on now! To defend Abelard against the intellectual infidels who prevented him from teaching and writing his brilliant thoughts for the ages to come. 

Abelard saw John nod in assent, and lie back down again at ease once again. He took more oil and he knew what he must do to heal John.

He gently shook the vial, and drops of oil fell at the base of John's spine, and some more drops sprinkled over his derriere, and finally, some more drops over his navel. To each place, Abelard went to massage and stroke. Soon, John’s nostrils filled with the exotic scents. He breathed deeply and the stone walls crumbled in a dark part of his mind. The darkness behind the walls began to fill with daylight and the outside air. Abelard placed his hands on his navel and began to spread the rare oil there and John tensed involuntarily. 

“Do not fear John, it is I, Pierre, who loves you, who will not hurt you…” Abelard whispered as his hands touched John as if handling prized jewels in a treasure chest. What could he say about such pure masculine beauty? Those who did not see this purity did not deserve to live! He would give John back that purity and if he had the privilege of making love to him many more times in his life, he would wipe away the impurity for all time. 

He had heard of helpless young women, brutally raped by lords who practiced the “droit de seigneur”, the right to take any woman they fancied, and then discard her like flotsam. The women were ruined for life, unable to claim a proper dowry, and many killed themselves in misery. That John survived his ordeal, walking through the world of uncaring, superficial men in such a living torment … and did not kill himself yet! 

Wordlessly, Abelard bent down to kiss John, who lay perfectly still, as if asleep. Yet, John was as alert as in battle…John sensed that Abelard was healing him; that he knew. John knew this by his gentleness, which men are not wont to often show. He sighed softly, attempting to clear his mind of distractions, as he was trained to do. John allowed himself to only feel, only smell, and hear Abelard’s healing voice. Abelard spoke in his native Breton now, which John didn’t understand. It didn’t matter to John… it was his mother’s voice, his young love Jane, and his father’s kind instruction to him, as a boy... 

[ “Johnny dear! I am going to rub this on your sore and make it all better!” his mother cooed.

“John dear, how magnificent you look in your finery! Take my hand and let us away to the gardens!” Lady Jane twined her arm into his, smiling up at him. 

“Son… do not fear the deep water, just wade in and take my hand!” Father held his hand, as he felt the water rise to his chest. ]

 

And now, Abelard’s voice was murmuring against his ear again, like a loving brother and a brother-lover: :

“What does my Crusader knight wish for now? What is his heart’s desire at this moment?” Abelard cajoled him gently. His touch was still light and slow. 

John saw that Abelard was not seducing him at the moment and wanted him to speak truly. Heaven help him, he did not know how to ask! He wanted — he wanted Abelard to —! He took his teacher’s hand and guided it to his heated torment. 

“Kiss me here!” John barely spoke above a whisper. 

Abelard almost didn’t hear his request. He felt John move him shoulders downward a little, and then he understood at last.

“Ah, ---- my brave knight desires the forbidden kiss!” he exclaimed happily. John nodded vigorously, still miserably embarrassed by his request. He had dreamed of those lips, speaking, lecturing, reciting poetry, and -- kissing him. Abelard had never obliged any man in this kiss; he had only his experience with Heloise to follow into this unknown path. She had loved these kisses lavished on her up until the point of nearly swooning with delight. Could John be brought to this too? He brought his face low, smelling traces of the scented oil, the mild scent of vanilla. He was a veritable dessert to be savored and then devoured!

At the first sensation of his lips, John felt the heat and blood leave his legs and arms, rushing down to his navel. Abelard clamped down with his lips, as he gripped John's derriere. Abelard felt, tasted, his glorious full treasure. Astounded, Abelard himself was stirred to the depths. 

“Help me, Pierre! — John groaned miserably when Abelard paused to reach for the oil, which he slowly poured onto his hand. He bathed John in it, every curve of his intimate parts, parts that Abelard no longer had. John had enough for both of them combined and Abelard marveled. His lost Jane had never had the pleasures of sexual union with such a well built man as John. And he, wretched man, had this honor! Unbelieving of his great fortune, he was humbled and vowed to gratify John completely. He would heal him in this manner-- in the forbidden kiss!

“Yes, yes, John. I will help you now. Trust in me!” John heard his teacher’s confident words like a herald’s clarion call to victory. 

Then, nothing but the oil in Abelard’s hands, the burning heat all over his body, hotter than the desert sands in the Levant. He had never known such blazing heat! Abelard reveled in the scents and sounds coming from John. As Abelard watched him, his own body stirred with long forgotten desire. Abelard stared at himself in overjoyed amazement, as he responded to John’s ardor. Abelard vowed once more to heal him…with all of his bodily strength, his experience, and love for his scarred friend. He only paused once more, when John wanted Abelard's lips on his own, just before his ultimate throes of passion. Abelard gazed into his eyes, seeing his world in them, and kissed him until John surrendered his sword to his lord.


	11. "Of A Reunion, A Key and the Re-emergence of the Light and  Voice"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In theSpring of 11240, Abelard and John reunite after several years' absence. Abelard is now at the Paraclete, in semi=seclusion and "silence" due to his heretical writings. Abelard is teaching in an outdoor oratory, and his reputation is greatly diminished. Abelard is nonetheless, overjoyed to see John again. While they are finally alone, Abelard discovers some revealing aspects of John's chivalric lifestyle. And John learns the answer to a question which has eluded him for most of his adult life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extensive research was done into medieval customs of military and intimate articles of dress. 
> 
> No graphic sexual violence in this chapter.

Chapter 11

 

“Of A Reunion, A Key and the Re-emergence of the Light and Voice” 

 

Autumn of 1138: Letter from Abelard to John, in Chartres.

 

“To Phillistus, Friend and Confidante,

May this letter find you well and safely at your studies in Chartres. When you have received this letter, I will already be journeying to another monastery in Brittany. After our parting, I had finally decided to leave this wretched monastery, as the monks and head abbot here, had make yet another attempt on my life (poison) and the charges of heresy was brought against me for my current treatise, the Trinitarium Scholasticum…

I am much at peace in leaving as it was my longtime wish to do so…”

John read the slightly illegible words in sorrowful distress. He would need to protect his friend most speedily. He gathered pen and paper to respond:

“ Esteemed Teacher, Abelard,

It is with great sorrow and distress that I have read your latest turn of events. I am becoming well-known within the school here and a certain powerful abbot here, a Bernard de Clairvaux, has taken an interest in my studies and reputation. He is of great influence and I will beg his assistance on your behalf.”

John’s hand trembled as he struggled to write the next lines;

“Dear teacher, and one who knows me as well as my own dear mother, in remembrance of all our most profound moments spent together during peaceful hours of study and instructing one another in matters of the mind and heart, I pledge that I will rise above my own quiet nature, to associate with the secular men of the Church and State, and do all in my power to further my learning and career, whatever form that may take. I will most gladly extend the comfort of my own quiet nature, in order to restore my Teacher to his former esteemed reputation in academia and speak on your behalf to the most influential persons here at the School. As I speak, a certain abbot (unnamed for anonymity) is speaking to Abbot Clairvaux about your cause.”

Abelard read John's carefully written lines, the hopeful promise of assistance, his remembrance of their private moments together. Abelard realized then, that he had subtly effected a great change in his reserved student: he was now making his way in the world, in his own quietly confident manner. His practical, analytical intellect, combined with his agreeable character, would make him popular within the Church and a trusted colleague. His mind’s eye saw John as a statesman, representing his native country, dressed in his usual taste for dark clothing, wearing his gleaming Crusader’s Cross, dazzling the female — and also, the male sex.

John truthfully did not know the effect he had on either sex. 

 

(Eight months later): June 1139:

John walked out of the council hall, after many tiring hours of meeting with the Abbot, Bernard de Clairvaux, the Archbishop of Sens, and various other church figures chosen to read Abelard’s latest treatise, the Trinitarium Schlasticum. The King of England’s representative to the Papal See was also present, to hear John’s defense of Abelard, in order to ascertain John’s loyalty to the Papal teachings and more importantly, John’s more visible role with the King of France’s foreign department, as it related to England’s relations with the King of France. Fortunately, John’s defense of Abelard’s writings did not include any subversive thought regarding the church’s teachings or of the Kings of both countries. Logical and practical, John’s defense could not be refuted. The Council ended with Abbot Bernard to petition the Pope one final time, before a planned council at Sens would convene. 

(Winter of 1039):

John has just returned from England, after a momentous meeting with King Henry’s head secretary of the court, who has informed John that he will be appointed as the new ambassador to the King’s court. Working with the Archbishop of Canterbury’s new secretary, the young, aspiring deacon, Thomas Beckett, It would be John's principal duty, mentoring the younger man in politics and church laws. John writes to Abelard, now cloistered in the Paraclete, assisting Heloise with her convent’s Rule.

“Dear Esteemed Teacher, Abelard,

It is with great relief that I know that you are in close proximity and tranquility with Heloise at the Paraclete. I thank you for your copies of the hymns you both have composed…

As you know by now, I have just returned from England, and am at the School in Auxerre, inquiring about Mr. Thomas Becket’s academic qualifications, as he is being considered as the next Archdeacon of Canterbury. The King of England is highly in favor of his promotion and has asked me to take on this most important task…”

“… my soul longs for a much needed respite from my duties and the peaceful sanctuary of the old days spent in happy company with my spiritual brother.” 

John’s last lines spoke of his loneliness and Abelard uttered one word into his dimly lit cell: 

“John!” 

In his mind’s eye, he saw the image of John’s face in the four corners of his dim, lonely cell.

Abelard touched the place where his half-self rose in fitful starts, and silently cursed his fate once again. What unknown quality did John possess in his face, his body, and in the sound of his voice, that made Abelard abandon all pride and arrogance, and enflame him almost without conscious thought? 

His love and desire was for only John, and no other man. Other men did not stir him to so much desire as John did. That was not rational, nor logical at all. For once in his life, he had no logical answer! 

After a few minutes of regaining his calm, Abelard re-folded John’s letter and placed it in a secret drawer along with the rest of his other letters. So, my premonitions have come true at last! Abelard thought to himself. My former reserved student has the King’s trust, and his reputation is on the rise! Abelard looked around his cell, filled with hymn books, a large pile of papers titled “The Rule of the Paraclete”, still unfinished for weeks. With renewed vigor, he silently vowed to complete it for Heloise and her nuns and write of it straightaway to his absent friend.

***********************************

(Spring of 1140): Letter from John to Abelard, at the St. Gildas Monastery in Brittany.

“Dear Esteemed Teacher and Friend, Abelard,

It is with great anticipation that I write to you again, that I have been temporarily relieved of my ambassador’s duties here, in order to travel to France once more any day now. I will be journeying to Brittany on business for a few days, but will have a week’s leisure after that is completed. It is my greatest wish to see you, whom I have dearly missed for so long…. I have heard news that you are not as well as I thought? I pray that your health is stable and that you hold onto your reserves of strength, until your friend can fly to your side once more…”

Abelard sat beside his window in his cell at St. Gildas in Brittany, watching the first green drooping branches of the weeping willows, and heard the morning rush of the monks’ footsteps for matins. He remained in his rooms for breakfast, which was brought to him, in order to allow the older teacher to sleep much later. He re-read John’s letter once more, with a hopeful heart, for the first time in many months. To see John once more! How rare and precious one man’s love and friendship can be, worth more than all the accolades the world has bestowed upon him during the heights of his career! 

Within the hour, he gathered his scrolls, books and cloak, and with a heavy step, ambled through the narrow garden path towards the small Oratory where a small group of students awaited their first lecture of the day.

These were his most loyal band of young academics, who were the siblings of his former Paris students. They followed him to the isolated monastery in the Breton forests, in hopes of learning from the greatest scholar of the western world, despite his banned works and the excommunication meted out to him by the Pope. 

Abelard walked up to the podium, spreading his scrolls before him, in his usual manner, looking around the humble stone miniature amphitheater. To his great surprise, he saw his inner circle of students, nearly twenty in count, and surrounding them on the periphery, were a sea of unfamiliar faces, all unknown to him! At least thirty more present! Amazed, he coughed several times, flushing furiously, as he had not prepared for such a gathering. A hush fell over the murmuring crowd as he began to speak:

“I am most humbled to see so many of you here… “ Abelard began uncertainly, clearing his throat.

“I have only prepared a simple lecture on the teachings of St. Paul and conversion.” he coughed again. He wrapped his cloak tighter around his neck. He began to quote 1 Corinthians 13: 4-7;

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does —“ he looked up at his class, scanning for their attention, when he saw another student entering, a little late, walking from the side entrance. 

The figure from afar — tall, wearing a dark blue cloak, long black hair, turned sideways, and then he saw it: the glint of a large silver Cross on his breast, the quiet, graceful movements, as he sat down at his seat, head bowed, staring intently at some papers. Abelard’s heart caught in his throat as that man slowly looked up and caught his wide-eyed glance: he gazed into his clear, azure eyes; they were moistened with emotion as that man gazed back at Abelard. There was the barest hint of a smile across his face, a slight coloring of his cheeks now. Abelard exhaled, and lost his place in his readings, as the ground beneath his heart seemed to shift and change. Mon Dieu! It was John! 

“It — it does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs…” he paused, stumbling on his words. Abelard’s pulse rapidly beat in his chest and the sides of his neck. 

[I have remembered ceaselessly, the times of our lovemaking, where we righted all the wrongs done to us by others. In you, I was healed, just as I healed you.] Abelard dared to look at John again, who had his hand on his cheek, listening intently.]

“Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” Abelard wiped the perspiration from his lips, coughed again. [You always protected me, John, even in my darkest days! You were a magnificent lover, and made me a whole man again.]

“Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease, where there are tongues, they will be stilled, where there is knowledge, it will pass away.” Abelard tightened his collar around his neck, coughed again. 

[With your loyalty, you assisted me to regain a semblance of my prior esteem among men. The hounds of hell have temporarily abated their chase and have allowed me to end my days here in this humble abode. You sit there so comely and strong of mind! My knowledge is passing, and Heloise will soon follow me to eternity… but your star is rising, John.] 

The sun rose higher, brighter, into the late morning hours. Abelard lectured on, and his heart leapt in his breast upon seeing John sitting in his oratory once again, and was overjoyed by the many students he brought to his oratory that quiet morning in spring. The students applauded several times, enthusiastic to hear the revered teacher’s theories, still crystal clear and irrefutable, 

For John, Abelard’s graying hair blowing in the spring breeze, his animated and charismatic expression, were a treasure to see once again after so long an absence. John’s face was calm, but his body was tense beyond telling…he longed to take Pierre in his arms once more in the solitary quiet of his cell! 

The eleventh hour finally came, and the students all thronged to shake Abelard’s hand, spellbound by the man’s sheer presence. John sat in the background, quietly waiting, allowing his teacher to revel in his rare acclaim, which was rarer these days. The students finally dispersed, leaving Abelard alone in the Oratory with John. Abelard slowly walked up the stone steps, to meet him at his seat. John stood, half-turned, so like the first moment they had met years ago. Abelard’s heart pounded as erratically as an adolescent’s. Oh, the man still had the power to turn his heart upside down! Abelard finally stood face to face, and swallowed hard before he spoke;

“Are you a new student from afar?” he began, in almost the exact words as their first meeting. There was a hint of a smile on John’s lips as he too, recalled the memory. 

“Yes, Msr. Abelard. I have just arrived from England late last night and staying here for two weeks on business, but mostly for leisure holiday.” John’s also began to speak, using similar words as during their first meeting years ago. 

“Have you any accommodations here, or do you require a room?” Abelard dared hope against hope.

“There are some unoccupied rooms here at the monastery.”, he offered, and he saw John raise his eyebrow questioningly. 

“I am staying at a small cottage owned by the French ambassador’s family. It was pre-arranged that I conduct business there for three days. It is a bit cramped quarters there and I had thought to find a room at an inn nearby. However, If it is no bother, to have a room at a quiet monastery for that time, I should be most obliging.” he answered in his clipped French accent. Completely alone now, in the silent oratory, Abelard whispered ardently as he leaned slightly into John;

“It is no bother at all, to offer hospitality to one so dear to me, whom I cannot believe is standing before me this moment. How I long to speak to you privately, — only us—“ Abelard’s voice trailed off as John hesitantly reached for his trembling arm.

“I most sorely regret that I must leave you now, so soon after seeing you again after so long a separation. I must gather the thirty students I brought here to attend your lecture. They must all return back to Nantes by this evening under my escort.” John patiently explained his predicament to a slightly disappointed Abelard. 

"I promise you, that I shall send for you, within three days’ time!” John whispered urgently, and managed to squeeze Abelard’s arm, before turning on his heel and leaving, before all resolve left him and he’d have taken Abelard right then and there on the Oratory’s stone steps!

 

********************************************

For the next three days, John was occupied with affairs of church and state, with the French ambassador, writing letters to the King about the current meetings with archbishop Theobald of Chartres, who traveled from there especially to meet John. He had heard of the capable young scholar and was in need of a personal secretary soon, as his own was advancing in age and no longer interested in the post. John’s business dealings were successfully concluded and all letters sent back to England during the first morning’s sail across the channel.

Abelard also busied himself with finishing Heloise’s new Rule for her convent, which he would send to her speedily. Of late, she had been almost like a thorn in his side about the whole Rule and he knew why: she could not have him, and he would not reprise that old argument once more. His heart was too bruised, his body too damaged to argue with her contradictory woman’s moods!

At last, John was freed of his duties and anticipating his week’s leisure time in Brittany, which the King had granted him. He was housed in a small cottage which was the personal property of the French ambassador to Britain. John was more accustomed to lodging at inns, as more privacy was afforded to guests. The kind ambassador has a brood of three children and an extroverted French wife, who was kindly but a nosybody into John’s affairs under her roof. John arranged for two rooms at the older but famed Les Bains de Loire for himself and a “friend”, and had apologetically left the ambassador’s home, saying that he had an ill friend who needed “the cures”. Tarrying no further, he left on the fourth morning, towards the inn. 

Abelard was standing by his favorite rosebush in the garden, hands clasped behind his back, on that morning, satisfied that he had finally finished Heloise’s assignment and that she would finally leave him at peace. He heard footsteps approaching the garden, the creaking of the old gate, and a young courier stood with a note;

“Monsieur Abelard, a letter for you from a Sir John!” he announced. Abelard hastily fetched it, offering the young man a franc. 

“Dear Friend,

I have arranged a carriage for you today, arriving at the noon hour, to take you to the Bains de Loire Inn, where I am staying for the week. I am in door number 4 and your room is next to mine, number 5. Walk behind the front entry and you will find my room. I have already registered and paid for your room, as a medicinal visitation at the mineral spas here, and a physician is on the premises, if needed, for your lungs.

Please bring some changes of clothing for a few days’ stay and do not forget your current medicinals and herbs. 

Awaiting your good presence.

"J.”

With great excitement, Abelard rushed back to his rooms, packing necessities and his medicinals, as John requested. As an afterthought, he rolled up a scroll of his latest treatise, the Trinitarian Christianum and brought a heavier cloak for travel. John and he could discuss its contents," as in the old pleasant days!" 

The carriage arrived promptly and Abelard sat inside its cool quarters, the breezes refreshing him, as he spent the hour’s ride in pleasant reverie about John and his rare excursions to the Loire-Atlantique region, with its dramatic cliffs and surf.

A wild, untamed area, echoing the ancient Viking and Celtic ages, a people both brash and sentimental, like himself, with reddish hair and freckled complexion. A most odd language, Breton, unlike the smooth Romance tones of the rest of France. 

His thoughts turned back to the inn, and John’s wise choice of an older, more remote establishment. There were many bath houses in Brittany, made famous by the damnable Vikings. John had chosen the oldest, smallest inn, invariably for undisturbed privacy. He pictured John as he saw him in lecture three days ago, and the time vanished, as he suddenly found the carriage slowing down at the end of a narrow road, flanked by tall sea grasses. There stood the yellowed stone edifice with its ancient Roman columns, with the Caesar’s coin profile over its arched entry. 

Swinging his large sack from behind his seat, he left the carriage, as the driver led his thirsty horse to the water trough. He walked behind the entry, searching for John’s room and knocked expectantly. His heart pounded as erratically as an untried adolescent. He heard a chair slide, as he heard John's quick footsteps and the door hinge unlatching… and Abelard’s upper lip was perspiring. Mon Dieu! he was too old for this folly!

John opened the door quickly, standing in the short doorframe, impossibly tall, the sun casting a bright ray of light across his face and chest. The sun highlighted the warm glow on his cheeks, shone on his straight black hair blowing n the cross breeze, and caused him to squint, eyes piercing in their blueness. His white loose shirt was dazzling in its brightness, in sharp contrast to his dark leggings. Abelard stood in wide eyed wonder, unable to speak. 

“Mon Dieu! — you are an apparition!” he exclaimed foolishly, his cheeks reddening.

“Likewise, Pierre.!” John stared back at Abelard, pleasantly surprised that he was not wearing his drab cleric’s frock but a most tasteful cloak and tunic, the color of crimson summer cherries from Essex fields, he marveled. The color accentuated Abelard’s sensuous curved mouth, and John’s gaze lingering there. John flushed as Abelard's intelligent eyes missing nothing, stared unabashedly down at John’s long legs. John wore riding boots, which Abelard had never seen him wearing before. Perhaps he had just been riding earlier today? Abelard wondered, as the thought of his scholarly student riding at full speed greatly excited his imaginings. Abelard moistened his lips several times, as his eyes traveled down the length of John’s legs again.

Pierre still wants me! Even after so long a separation! John thought excitedly. He dragged his eyes away from his teacher’s mouth, and made way for him to enter his room.

Abelard entered quickly, as John just as quickly shut and locked the door. He went to close the shutters at once, took Abelard’s large bundle, setting it down on the chair across the room. Then, John walked towards his teacher, eyes fastened on those lips, and Abelard’s knees weakened, as John embraced him with all his being. 

“You cannot imagine how long I have waited these past three years!…” John whispered into his ear, as Abelard felt John passionately kissing his earlobes and mouth. His reserved John was pressing him against the wall and his hips made him a prisoner. Abelard was pleasantly surprised at John’s unaccustomed aggressiveness! 

“When I saw you— saw you standing there in the oratory again, I nearly swooned…” Abelard gasped as John pressed his body tightly against his own. John was already enflamed with passion, and Abelard knew that John might not be as self-controlled as usual. Ah, to be overtaken by such a man! Abelard gasped again, as John embraced him once more before removing his cloak, and linen scarf. John backed away a few steps, as he suddenly restrained himself. 

“I am most sorry, Pierre! You have just arrived and I cannot control myself!…” He went to the table and poured his teacher a cup of cider wine. Abelard watched his trembling hands with inner delight. John was fighting to control his desires and he, wretched man, was the most fortunate of men! 

“I thank you for the wine, which I shall drink,…” Abelard began to chuckle as he watched John sit across from him, his long legs crossed, desperately attempting to control and hide his responses.

“I shall drink it slowly, as you speak to me and I sit here watching and feasting my eyes upon your manly form…” Abelard’s voice was dripping like honey and with the promise of more seducing. 

John poured a cup of wine for himself, and slowly took a long draught. Bravely, he began, 

“You know what I have been doing these past few years from my letters, but you do not know what I have been thinking these past few years, Pierre…” John looked down at his wine, waiting.

“And pray tell me, what profound thoughts has my student been thinking?” Abelard teased him gently and with a promise of more seducing, as his hand reached for John’s wrist.

“I could not write them down, master … for fear of others’ discovering our letters, especially the Templar masters, who mete out harsh punishments. I waited until I could see you once again, to tell you —“ John continued as his body and mind were a contradiction of desire, longing and the inability to speak his mind clearly. Abelard waited for John to collect himself, knowing he would hear something of great importance. John took another draught of wine, seeking courage to speak. He spoke into his cup:

“My mother, before she passed on, begged me to go to you, that you and I needed each other. That I needed someone to look after me, perhaps, as a father would a son. My mother understood that we were lovers.” John paused, taking another sip. 

“She understood many things about me, as—as you do, about —about what I had suffered.” he coughed and reddened. Abelard placed his hand on his forearm now, listening intently.

“I came back to France on business, yes? But also, most of all, to see you once again. To — to tell you…”

Suddenly, he could not go on. Heaven help him if his teacher did not feel as he did!

Abelard spoke to him now, in his native English language, which he rarely used, as he was unfamiliar with it grammatically. 

“Speak your heart, John, what do you wish to say?” John looked at him in surprise, as he spoke to him in his own language.

“You healed me — my body, my mind, all of my being. It gave me confidence to go into the world and make my way there. But it is not enough. I think of you day and night — I live chastely, of course, and have no wish for women any longer. I only want,--- love — you.”

Abelard put his cup down lightly and met John’s eyes. The man was truly in love with him. He saw it in his eyes, his face, heard it in his words, read it in his letters, read in between the words’ meaning. He knew of their attraction, the mysterious pull of their bodies towards each other, their common intellect, their calamities, and the bond that formed from that knowledge. John confessed it aloud now, confessed what Abelard was afraid to admit to himself. That he too, loved John. Not in the way he loved Heloise, as the male sex superior to the female, as nature intended. But as another equal, without any past history of guilt, sins or wrongdoing. Abelard took a large draught of wine, for courage, before his next words.

“Mon Dieu! — I felt it, and wished for it, but I did not know that you wished for it too, until now. Yes, I—i too, I only want you.” he stopped for breath and more courage to continue.

"And i only love you now. Not as I love Heloise, as a wife, only on paper now, as I cannot ever be an earthly husband to her. Yes, I love her still… but it is always tinged with pain, regret, loss. I have none of that with you John. Only love as an equal as myself.” Abelard gazed steadily at John, who was taking in every word. 

“Thank you, dear master, for giving me a reason to live, a most noble purpose to awaken in the morning. To be loved by you, so esteemed by all, yet I am nothing compared to you.” John took Abelard’s hand from his arm, and kissed it tenderly.

Their first hour together passed, in conversation and deep silences, stolen glances and longing touches. John refilled his cup and offered him some of the red grapes and cheeses left by the innkeeper’s cook. It was still early in the day and John had an inspiration for them to pass the next hours. He had a secret plan to delight his teacher and to fan the flames of desire.

“The afternoon is still long and the weather mild. Shall we go for a carriage ride and enjoy the ocean views?” John suggested. For he knew that if he stayed in this room with Abelard, he would surely go mad with desire, and the evening was not yet upon them.

“Yes,,,, yes, of course!” Abelard rose reluctantly, but he too, knew that the they both needed a diversion.

Before leaving, John reached for a large bundle underneath his bed while Abelard donned his cloak and could not see it, and quickly went outdoors to place it behind the carriage’s seats before Abelard sat beside him. 

They took the narrow road that the driver had brought Abelard on earlier. John knew the route along the Loire Atlantique. They stopped several times to sit on the black boulders to gaze at the infinite vastness of the ocean, marveling at the surging tides crashing upon the rocky cliffs. No one walked these beaches as they were rumored to be haunted with the ghosts of the Viking barbarians of yore. They spoke of their families, long gone now, their struggles in the world ended. John helped Abelard along the slippery rocks, as they rose to head back to the carriage. They drove back towards the inn slowly, stopping again in a grove of trees, to rest. The lush green foliage and rustling leaves soothed Abelard’s high strung nature. John saw his teacher’s features ease in the peaceful surroundings. Abelard tells John that he is growing tired of the ceaseless plots to ban his works and silence him. He has found refuge in assisting Heloise in her spiritual affairs at her convent. He tells John about his newest treatise, on the teachings of St. Paul, a safe endeavor during these uncertain times in his career. John hears a tinge of defeat in his teacher’s voice, but also, a semblance of peace. 

“Ah! how I needed this time of solitude with you!” Abelard suddenly exclaims, as he leans closer to John. 

“Let us return soon, and have a pleasant supper meal, as in the old days!” Abelard begins to say, but John quickly 

 

“Pierre, sit here and rest awhile longer. I have a surprise for you! I have brought some of my most treasured possessions…” John announced with a slight catch in his voice. He returned to the carriage to fetch two large bundles behind their seats. He walked behind a large tree trunk, to open the long bundle; he pulled out an intricately carved steel broadsword in its scabbard. Unwrapping the other bundle, layers of protective clothing for battle practice. He dons the seldom-worn body articles, his thin habergeon, or mail shirt, , a sword-belt, a pair of protective chausses, for his legs, and finally, his mail mittens. 

He steps out from behind the tree, in full practice dress, sword in hand. Abelard gasps in amazement. John moves into battle stance, eyes fixed on an overgrown bush as a low target. He wields the heavy sword overhead, swinging for the low limbs nearby, cutting them effortlessly, the air filled with the sounds of the weapon slicing through he errant limbs. Abelard’s pulse quickens, as he watches in fascination…

“I have not worn these since the war’s end!” John pants, as he catches his breath, watching his teacher’s expression. Then, he swings again, multiple times, turning his body in circles as the blade cuts through more limbs. Abelard watches his movements in awe, warrior’s training in every muscle underneath his armor. Abelard swallowed hard, as the minutes pass as if he is watching a mirage. All the misshapen limbs lay strewn on the grass, like fallen calvary. John stood, breathless, sweating profusely, and slid his still-hot sword blade back into its scabbard. He reached into the larger bundle for another object, a curved bladed sword resembling a scythe. Abelard’s eyes widened at the sight of the exotic blade. John reddened as he heard his teacher mutter, “Mon Dieu! Another weapon?” 

“This sword was a spoil of war from the Seljuk Turks’ calvary when I fought in the battle of Aziz!” John exclaimed breathlessly, brandishing the exotic sword through the overgrown bushes with right and left hands alike. Abelard marveled at the identical show of ease and skill of both hands. After finishing off a series of maneuvers, John paused, intently eyeing the curved weapon in his gloved hands, then looked at Abelard, his blue eyes darkening in menace. 

"Had I had this, on the night of my capture, all of those men would have been dead at my hand!” John’s voice hissed angrily as he swung the scythe-like blade across another overgrown bush, his chain mail rippling across his chest and back, as he turned away form Abelard to finish off the rest of the bushes. 

Abelard watched John advance towards his invisible enemies, the demons still present in his inner inferno. He used the curved sword with each hand separately, to Abelard’s amazement. He had never known John to be adept with the left hand. 

What else did he not know about his friend? What unseen forces still took hold of his soul when the long night open its gaping mouth and the waves of infidel calvary charged in formation to lay siege within his memories?   
He committed this image of John, in fluid and deadly motion, to memory. It would always be the day that John allowed him a glimpse into his past glory and pain. He saw that man that was, the man he never chose to become himself, yet, John was his unnamed half. Their only difference was that John had battled as a Crusader knight and he had battled the halls of academia. That a man of such physical action and of sound intellect could exist in one body and mind, was a marvel to behold. 

Finally, John dropped the hot blade onto the cool ground, his protective garments permeated with sweat. He saw his teacher’s expressions, which were a curious palette of emotions. His eyes were bright with awe and admiration, his cheeks reddened with excitement, and he was moistening his lips intently, which John knew was s sure sign of Abelard’s desire.

“John…! that— that was — a most bold surprise!” Abelard exclaimed, as the scent of sweat, leather and steel overpowered his senses, as John stood inches from him. Abelard was almost beside himself, as his eyes strayed from John’s face, to his bare chest and arms underneath his protective thin mail, dripping in sweat, and he dared not look further lower!

“Did you find me lacking in any skill? For I know you had a knight’s training in your youth…” John’s voice was a mere whisper, panting until he was able to slow his breathing. John replaced his curved sword into its similarly shaped scabbard. John silently knelt on the cool ground and began reopening his bundles, in order to remove his body armor behind the tree once more. As he began to remove his mittens, he felt Abelard’s firm hands on his shoulders. Glancing up, he saw his teacher standing over him, felt his flowing sleeves touching his still-perspiring face. 

“You do not lack for any skills, John. You — you have them all! Skills that I often wish I should have pursued…” Abelard looked into John’s eyes, filled with pain.

“I often wish I had never gone to battle, master. No,—no, you do not want my memories! “ John’s voice was adamant, trembling with emotion.

 

Abelard then knelt with him, and embraced him silently, his heart aching as he felt John turn his face towards him, felt his long, dark hair falling over his own shoulders, felt John’s strong arms clutching his back. 

“Yes, —yes! I want your memories — all of them, John!” Abelard’s voice was muffled against the folds of John’s collar. His lips found bare skin at last, underneath it, and he bit the base of his neck. John’s back arched suddenly, as he felt the bite. 

“I want all of them, —all of you!” Abelard whispered into his hollow of his neck, and bit again. Hearing John groan aloud, Abelard began to seduce in earnest. 

“Do not remove your armor! I will do it—and you will do it for me!” his hands trailed down to John’s chest, squeezing one of his breasts, finding the hardened aureoles there. John gasped aloud, at the unexpected seduction. Abelard’s words grew bolder;

“I will remove your habergeon, —“ he bit his neck again, harder. John closed his eyes, rolling his head back.

“I want to see your bare arms, your chest——which excites me…” Abelard’s fingers squeezed John’s breasts again, then released them. John groaned and muttered in frustration, yet he said nothing in protest. 

“You will stand as still as the marbled sculptures of old, while I remove it. Half-naked, you will come to me and then, later, much later, I will watch you as you remove your chausses, one by one,—“ Abelard’s hands roved over his backside, his hips, and stopped at his heavy belt. John held his breath, unable to speak, as Abelard’s seduction worked its fiery spell on his imagination.

“What shall we do then?” John managed to ask, as he fought valiantly for patience.

“You will see…” Abelard whispered in his most seductive manner, as he touched the forbidden place. He heard John’s sharp intake of breath, and then, abruptly, John suddenly stood up, pulling Abelard upwards with him.

John strode in long, hurried steps towards the carriage, where his horse had been patiently watching the humans’ fondling one another, much like themselves. The ride back to the inn was swift, silent, with sidelong glances. John eyed Abelard’s aristocratic profile, as he looked straight before him, moistening his lips, slightly smiling to himself. 

Abelard stole more glances, as John leaned closer, when they made rapid turns in the road, and to watch John in his splendid armor, knowing that tonight, it would all be removed, the way he wanted to. They arrived back at the inn, still visible in the darkening twilight sky. Quietly, they entered John’s rooms, neatly made earlier by the chambermaid. John bolted the lock, closed all the shutters to the windows, and heated the lanterns against the coming night chill. Abelard removed his crimson cloak, laying it on John’s bed. 

John busied himself lighting the lanterns, from the fireplace’s kindling as gradually, the room warmed to his liking. The inviting fireplace and lanterns cast am amber blow over the richly decorated wood furnishings. John knelt by the fire, adding more kindling for Abelard’s comfort, unaware that his teacher was watching him. For indeed, Abelard was watching intently, as the flames illuminated John’s habergeon, highlighting his skin underneath. He watched him remove his mittens, slowly flexing his hands over the fire. How such beautifully shaped hands he had! How could such hands have fought with such deadly force at one time?

Was John ever one of the fearsome bearded Templar knights, and did not reveal this to any man, for fear of his life? The Templars from the Frankish and Germanic lands were plentiful, yet, there were very few from Britain.The Pope’s clarion call to battle was not as enthusiastically answered in John’s native land. Perhaps John had shaved his Order’s signature beard, in order to escape detection by infidel enemies and renegade mercenaries, who infiltrated the Crusaders’ ranks lately. Oh, the sullying of the Templars’ once pious reputation in western civilization! Abelard was relieved and grateful that John had the foresight to remain inconspicuous within the secular world. 

John was celibate, of that Abelard was certain — he rarely spoke of any women except his long-gone Jane. His letters never told of any new love of the female sex. John had admitted his celibacy early in their friendship.

Abelard had taken it as a matter of course, as nearly all of the church’s unmarried scholars and tutors were celibate, as the Church’s rules demanded for teaching promotions. Lost in reverie, he had not noticed that John was standing close, lantern in hand,

“Pierre, — is the fire to your comfort now? I do not wish you to become ill during your stay with me.”

John held the lantern near his face, which illuminated the blueness of his eyes, and the strong bones in his face. Were he an artist, he would paint John’s face as it looked now, the flames of the hearth behind him, his black hair shining softly, his startling blue eyes gazing intently, and holding within them, a thousand hidden thoughts.

“I have never felt better in my life —“ Abelard’s mouth was dry with passion, and he moistened his lips, as his hand absently stroked John’s thigh. He cleared his throat several times, and asked for some refreshment for his thirst. John strode to the cupboard and fetched two mugs, and poured some of the new burgundy wine that the chambermaid had left. John knelt by the bed, as Abelard half-reclined, and took a long draught of the wine. John drank a little, not much, as he wanted his senses fully aware this night. He did not know what to expect of Abelard, or himself. He only knew that it had been years, long years, since they had made love since that first, and only time. 

He saw Abelard drink some more draughts of wine, moistening his lips, finishing the entire cup within seconds, and asked for more wine. John quickly poured him another cup, as his teacher nodded his thanks, and John could not take his eyes from watching his teacher’s mouth, as it pressed against the cup, his tongue again moistening his lips, the color of the wine now. John’s chilled limbs, warmed by the growing fire, were growing even more warmer, when he saw Abelard loosen his tunic to expose his chest. John was startled from his reverie, when he heard his teacher’s voice, commanding, confident, as he had sounded that long-ago night years ago:

“I have waited for you too many long years, John. Forgive me tonight, if I seem to speak roughly, or play the dominant one—“ Abelard paused, feeling the wine course through his brain, giving him courage.

“I only do so, because —because—“ he paused again, looking into John’s eyes, feeling their spell on his soul. 

“I truly want you—love you. Only you now.” Abelard finally voiced his true thoughts. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. 

John heard the words he longed to hear for so long. From the day after he left his teacher’s bed years ago, until this very moment, and in between, throughout the lonely years when he was making his way in the world of cold, selfishly ambitious men. He always had Abelard before his eyes, always looked to his brilliant thought, as his foundation, always held dear to him, that one night of love, that night where his body, mind and soul were healed all at once, because of one man’s complete understanding and love. How could he ever repay such unselfish acts ?

“How can I ever repay you for what you have done to heal my body and mind, that night we first loved?” John whispered, looking down at his hands. Abelard’s heart beat erratically as he marveled at John’s face: long eyelashes against the fine bones of his face, and he wondered for the thousandth time, how fortunate he was to have him as a true friend and confidante. John could have any woman,or man, for that matter. So bedazzled were the eyes of both sexes, upon gazing at him, as he walked through this small town and in the city of Paris. He would love him with every fibre of strength that his forty-some odd year old body and experienced lovemaking could summon. 

The first time they loved, was a healing time for both. The second time, tonight, would be a passionate time for both. Abelard would seduce and dominate, as was his preference all his life, but in the end, he would abandon himself completely to John, body and soul. Not even with his wife Heloise, did he ever allow her to completely dominate him, as she so enjoyed being submissive. Yes! at the right moment, he would “bait and switch”, as the English were fond of saying these days.

The firewood suddenly glowed a hot orange, igniting the embers anew and the room grew even warmer. John saw Abelard removing his tunic and undershirt, standing bare chested, still wearing his matching crimson trousers. John swallowed hard, as his teacher walked towards him slowly. How he had missed seeing how virile and muscular he actually was, underneath the guise of his smooth shaven, distinguished countenance! How Heloise must have loved the unexpected surprise of his masculine appearance, without clothing, John thought to himself, reddening at his straying imaginings of Abelard with her. 

“My repayment shall be realized tonight.” Abelard cryptically replied, his eyes fastened on John’s partially covered chest. 

“Sit upon the low bench there, at the foot of the bed John.” he commanded, in a soft, yet firm tone. At once, John backed into the hard wooden bench, hands curled along the edges of it. Abelard stood before him, his fingers beginning to work on opening the snaps over his shoulders, prying the tight snaps open, until John’s habergeon came apart, revealing his upper chest and arms. and hung over his abdomen and wrists. To be freed of the metal mesh, Abelard would need to pull it over his head or have him stand and step out of it. Abelard had no such plans for the moment …

“Now, look at me John, and give me your mouth.” Abelard commanded again, softly, yet firmly. John tilted his face upwards, and Abelard saw a mixture of emotions in his expression: desire, a hint of anxiety, restraint.

“Do not fear my seduction, my dominance…. it is only a ruse. You dominate me, more than you know.” Abelard’s lips clamped over John’s and finally kissed him fully, his fingers trailing down John’s hair, his cheeks, down the sides of his neck, over the top of his broad shoulders, then down the front of his chest, then he removed his hands, withdrew from his kiss. 

John wanted to take his face in his hands, wanted to be kissed again, but his wrists were immobile underneath the layers of mesh against his lower arms. He steadied his breathing, knowing that if he did not, he would not last the night in full. Abelard bent over him, and with his lips and tongue, followed where his hands had been. John slid down lower on the bench, as Abelard firmly gripped his wrists, kissing his neck, and bit into the soft skin near his pulse. Abelard pulled the habergeon down to his waist. John felt the mesh tightly pressing against his waist.

“Now, look at me again, John — obey me without fear!” he again commanded softly, yet firmly. John nodded wordlessly, as he gazed into his teacher’s expressive eyes. Satisfied, Abelard bent over him again, pulling the chain mail apart from the center, and found John’s breast. He covered the darkening aureole with his mouth, and tasted John’s scent. He heard John’s gasp, as he covered the other one with his moist lips. Abelard tasted both now for blissful moments, and for John, it was a torment, as he could not use his hands.

He could only arch his back against the foot of the bed and steady his breathing.

“It is a torment for me too, John! More than you know!” Abelard’s voice was seductive, and slightly rueful.

Abelard eased his seduction, allowing John to catch his breath. How beautiful John was, at this moment! 

He rewarded him with snapping open nother few snaps of the chain mail, until it fell away from his abdomen and onto the floor with a swishing sound. John heard it, and found blessed relief — his hands were finally freed, or were they? Abelard still held his perspiring wrists. 

“Stand up, John… and hold tightly onto the bed posts!” Abelard’s voice was firm, confident now.

John stood clumsily, his back stiff from pent-up tension. He stared at Abelard, wide-eyed, still breathless from Abelard’s kisses. Abelard eyed him from head to toe. Experience told him that John was summoning up all of his patience to be a worthy lover. His eyes told him otherwise; John’s body betrayed his calm countenance. He would not last long, if he dominated him excessively. Abelard took his tunic and gently wiped the sweat from John’s face and neck. 

“I will assist you in removing your leg protector armor, one by one…” Abelard softened his tone a little. 

“Be still for me…” Abelard whispered, as he untied the cords from his ankles, working up to his calf protectors, pulling apart the leather and silver studded covering, which fell to the floor with a flapping sound. John’s legs trembled as he felt Abelard’s hands on the laces around his knees, and felt his lower chausses peeled down to his feet. Abelard helped him step out of these, and then repeated his command, 

“Be very still now!…I shall remove these now.” Abelard began to undo the snaps on the side of John’s leg protectors covering his thighs. The studs here were more worn, the leather, more frayed. Abelard pictured John on horseback, riding in battle, holding the Crusader’s shield in hand, his broadsword in his left hand.

Suddenly, he clutched John’s thighs tightly, and in his most commanding voice, he asked,

“Do you wish me to remove these, or will you?” his gaze burned into John, who was standing as still as a sculpture. For the first time, in many minutes, John spoke,

“If you would begin, then I will finish… when you allow it.” John whispered, barely audible. Abelard heard the permission given to him, and supremely satisfied, he began to remove each layer of covering, slowly, with caressing fingers, and John was still, except for the movements he could not control any longer. Abelard pulled some of the layers and snaps down with his fingers, some others, he used his mouth and bit into the soft leather, pulling them down until they also fell to the floor. Abelard held John firmly behind his legs, as he worked through the cumbersome snaps. He wondered whether, perchance, John slept in these, so difficult were they to remove if pressed for time. John’s hands gripped the bedposts harder, as Abelard removed the highest leg protectors, He head Abelard rise to his feet, as the last layer softly slid to the floor.

All the coverings were off, and John stood bare legged, except for his undergarment. A heavy log from the fire crackled loudly, splitting in two. Abelard moistened his dry lips as he stared unbelievingly at the most unusual undergarment he had ever seen. Instead of the typical, common white briefs which all men wore, John wore criss-crossed bands of the thinnest leather, resembling the ancient wrappings of the great Pharaohs. They covered the entire front of his navel, and was secured by a thick leather and mesh band around his waist. Over his right hip, dangled a very small padlock. Abelard’e eyes scanned the expanse of the belt on the left, searching for the key to this lock. No key was in sight… where was the key? Abelard wondered, aghast, as he could not help observing that John was in a most heightened state of heat. He was most likely in that state for most of the afternoon, while exerting himself during his battle maneuvers, and up until this moment. 

How long had he been wearing this? Was he required to wear this torment at all times? Why, for the love of God? It was a most distressing thought, yet, Abelard was strangely drawn to the very idea! 

John saw Abelard’s furrowed brow of confusion, his wide eyed curiosity, and yes,—even his desire. John dueled with his thoughts now: he trusted his teacher with his very life. Yet, once he told him all, he would expose Abelard to some of the secrets of his past and to those who retained those secrets. Above all, John was to protect to the death, all those loyal to him. Protect the weak, the poor, the oppressed. His older friend was all these, and more. In his innermost soul, John knew that they were stealing heaven during this rare week alone together. He would tell him now!

“Pierre, I have taken the vows of celibacy away from battle, and chastity during battle. For truly, I am a Poor Fellow-Soldier of Christ of the Temple of Solomon, and wear the Sergeant’s black armor.” John softly confessed, as he released his hands from their grip on the bedposts. He stared at the rising flames behind Abelard, as he flexed his stiff fingers.

“Mon Dieu, it is as i suspected! You are a Templar knight!” Abelard whispered in a hushed voice. It was all now very clear; John’s chivalry and restraint among the few womenfolk who crossed their path during their days at the Paris school. His perilous expedition to recover the holy relics of the True Cross. The infidels’ attempted pillaging of these precious relics, and their cruel violation of him, a violence which they knew, would always be a permanent stain on his body and soul. 

So many unanswered questions! Had John broken his vows years ago, when they first made love? Was he still an active knight, or was he cast off by the Templar elders after his ordeal? Abelard didn’t know whether to kneel in reverent admiration or groan in frustration. Almost as if he read his thoughts, John began to explain more fully.

“After I was rescued that night by my fellow brothers from Spain, I was taken to a hospitaller order in Malta and cared for by young knights in training there. The Templar General ordered that I be released from active service for a time, that I might heal. He allowed me to choose to either stand by for future active battle when I was prepared to do so, or to decide to retire from the battleground and serve in the secular world. I chose to retire, yet, I sometimes long for the call to arms. I believe that I have lost a great purpose.”

John paused, allowing his words to be understood. Abelard nodded silently.

“Are you still bound to your vows? I see that you wear a padlock to your belt but see no key.” his eyes unconsciously scanned the entirety of John’s belt once more. He hoped to heaven that he would say that he was free to choose.

“I am no longer bound by those vows, however, I continue to practice them for practical purposes. I wear this belt for personal safety when I travel. The General highly advised me to use it, to ward off future attacks.” John’s eyes narrowed and darkened for a few fleeting seconds and his face became impassive,almost cold. Abelard reached fr his younger friend’s arm, lightly touching him in reassurance, until he saw John’s expression ease once more.

“Do not forget John, I may be nearly a decade older, but I once had swordsman’s training and one never forgets how to deal the devil’s death thrust!” Abelard exclaimed with a certain bravado. John was instantly warmed by his protective instinct and it endeared him even more to his loyal teacher.

“The key is hidden from view, and inside these folds. I will wait for you to take the key and unlock me, Pierre. I am accustomed to wearing this belt for very long periods.” John patted the top of his navel. John saw Abelard’s face redden with embarrassment and his own face flushed as he recalled the prolonged desire he had felt all afternoon, while displaying his battle maneuvers in the grove. Abelard heard the hidden invitation in his voice.

At that thought, Abelard came towards John, newly enflamed in body and mind. John had finally revealed his secret identity and now, John waiting for him to free him from his self-imposed denial, rendered him speechless. He could not fathom John’s reasons for such undue restraint, yet, he understood that there was a certain power in i and he meant to unleash it before the night was over. 

“Yes, you will wait for me to free you, John. I will seduce you first, in the way that I want. And you will wait patiently. “ Abelard pressed close to John, and took a firm hold of his left wrist. John’s eyes widened in surprise, yet he said nothing.

“Then, I will seduce you in the way that you want, and you will wait, —“ he went on, as he took John’s other wrist, and then lifted them both onto the bed posts. John blinked, and his limbs tensed as Abelard boldly grasped the dangling padlock over his belt. 

“And then, you will seduce me, in the way that I want.” he released the lock, and slowly trailed his fingers across John’s belt, stopping at his navel. John held his breath, not daring to move. His teacher was a master at seduction. 

“And then, I will allow you to master me at last.” Abelard whispered hotly into his ear, as his other hand slowly trailed down the left side of his belt, and stopped at his navel. John breathed in sharply, as Abelard’s fingers lightly caressed the smooth leather wrappings, below his navel. John suddenly gasped as Abelard firmly gripped the belt from behind, as his other hand moved over where the hidden treasure lay. Abelard felt a hard casing underneath the wrappings, another barrier to unwrap. He heard John muttering desperately under his breath, in his native tongue, and did not understand, but only smiled. Abelard squeezed the mesh-like barrier, and kissed him in the French way. John could neither move forward nor backward, but stood helplessly, his hands above, as Abelard caressed him. John stared at the flames, unable to find relief, and in his mind, once again, he was riding relentlessly across the undulating sand dunes in Hattin, sinking into the hot sands, then riding uphill over the dunes. waiting for the shifting hot sands to finally level off but they did not. He waited for his Templar General to relieve him from his tortuous night vigil, but was not given any rest from riding. The General ordered him to be fully awake and alert, with no relief in sight from riding the rough desert terrain. John struggled to grip the reins to steady himself in his saddle as his body undulated uphill and downhill. He was trapped every way he moved, with the General watching his every move! 

Finally, mercifully, Abelard finally allowed him to rest, He released his fierce grip on the bedposts and sank onto the low bench clutching his navel painfully. Abelard was unaware that pulling on the belt caused great discomfort as the padlock prevented movement inside. He winced as he readjusted his belt and rested his back against the bed frame. 

‘Mon Dieu! Have I killed you, my brave Crusader?” Abelard sank to his knees to comfort John, who was still clutching his navel painfully. 

“No,—no! I wil recover —“ John lay back with his eyes closed, breathing heavily.  
“ It is your manner of seduction which continually brings me to the brink!” he confessed, looking away.

‘I will stop much sooner —only say the word1’ Abelard promised breathlessly, kissing John's perspiring face. 

‘Slowly, now —tell me what you wish!’ Abelard waited until John’s breathing eased. 

‘Kiss me—here.’ John hesitantly guided his teacher’s hands to his breast. Abelard kissed it, both of them, in the French way. John slid lower on the hard bench, watching his teacher place his lips over them. Yes, John had first noticed Abelard's full, sensuous mouth, his small, secret smiles when he admired him from a distance, and John had secretly loved his stern, yet sensuous teacher, years ago, in the oratory. Out of those lips came brilliance of thought, and now, they reduced his mind to not one brilliant thought at all. 

“I always loved to look upon your lips in the oratory, — during your lectures —“ John confessed and then gasped, as Abelard bit into his other sensitive breast. 

“Where do you wish these lips to kiss now?” Abelard murmured hotly against his ear.

John asked for the simplest of requests; only kisses—on his forehead, his eyelids, his neck, his chest —and Abelard obeyed. The fire’s robust flames rose higher now, warming the entire room. Abelard was gentler now, kissing his eyelids, as he lavished praises upon John.

‘Do you know that one look into your eyes and I am lost to the world?’ Abelard confessed, as he gazed into them for a long moment. He kissed them lightly, and brought his lips over the hollow of John’s collarbone. He sucked and bit the tender flesh there. John saw flashes of lights before his eyes as the blood rushed to his navel. 

“I did not know, I —!“ John gasped in mid-sentence, as Abelard bit again, and the dull ache over his navel resumed once more.

John felt a slow, steady warmth easing his tense body, as Abelard kissed his upper arms, marveling aloud. "‘Such arms should never be concealed in a tunic!" 

"But your arms are more well formed, and you are not a soldier.” John flushed, looking away. Abelard did not answer, as he was busily massaging the tight muscles in his lower legs, moving upwards to the back of his knees. 

‘Ah, such well-formed legs which you continually hide behind dark trousers!” Abelard exclaimed, as he massaged the back of his knees and upwards over the tight muscles behind his legs. John had the strength of a battle-ready calvary man of his sergeant’s class. Abelard imagined John mounted on his horse, weapon in hand, perhaps early in his second decade… Abelard also saw now, so close to his vision, the small worry lines beginning to frame the edges of John's eyes and cheeks. Ah, to have seen him a little younger, in the first bloom of youth! Bold and daunting, afraid of no man … the John that he saw a glimpse of that today, as he beheld John’s prowess in the secluded grove of trees. With more promise of seduction to come, he asked in his most appealing manner. 

“Ah! — what else is hidden above these muscles?" Abelard’s hands moved from the back of John’s knees, upwards, slowly over his scarred thigh muscles, silently praying that they were the wounds of battle and not of his terrible ordeal. As his hands massaged the tense muscles, John, who was still standing, suddenly sat clumsily onto the low bench.

“I do not know how long I can restrain myself, Pierre!” John panted as he clutched his navel. 

"Then lie upon me with your full weight now. I wish to feel everything of you.” Abelard , as he lay himself upon his crimson cloak splayed over it. John immediately lay over him, completely covering his shorter teacher. John kissed him desperately now, for his body again rebelled against the padlock which held him in place. He pressed the entire length of his tall body over his teacher, and felt Abelard’s hands intimately reaching for him through his wrappings. 

“Ah,! — your hands!—— do not stop!” John fought for restraint to last yet another half-hour.

“Patience —“ Abelard whispered, as he lay John over his cloak, and drawing his knees apart, he kissed the insides of them, and brought his lips from one thigh to another, kissing the soft down covering the finely lined knife scars. Desire and pain filled his heart, as he heard John pleading for more kisses. Abelard’s hands gripped the wrappings of his briefs, feeling the outlines of his heated flesh, the hard edges of another small padlock fastened to a circular ring of some kind. Even more stunning, his trembling fingers felt the hardness trapped underneath the torturous device. God in Heaven — he must be unlocked, and very soon!, he thought with alarm, as he touched the dangling padlock over his right hip. 

 

“Ah, John! You are arriving at your breaking point!” Abelard whispered feverishly, taking notice of how John’s fingers hurriedly weaved throughout his hair. John again slowed his breathing, stilled his body.

“I do not want to fail you, — I want to gratify you first!” John gazed desperately at his teacher. 

Abelard withdrew his hands, allowing John some respite to breathe with more ease and stall his ardor. 

“I am truly sorry to fail —“ John desperately shook his head as he clenched his eyes shut, willing his treacherous body to obey him.

“No! no! — you have not! You have been — so patient, —— just, —exquisite! More than I ever hoped for!” Abelard exclaimed, as he pulled John’s knees apart once more and bent low to kiss the treasures between them. 

“Tell me,— tell me, when you wish to be unlocked!” Abelard whispered hotly, as he went on kissing John while his fingers played with the padlock over his right hip. Abelard felt his own body stirring anew, at the thought of unwrapping yet another layer. He could never wear such a device, if they paid him thousands of francs!

“Now, —now, l beg you, I cannot wait —“ John arched his back as a wave of desire overtook him. Abelard quickly held the padlock over fJohn’s perspiring hip while John hurriedly reached for the hidden laces underneath the wrappings. As the layers fell aside, Abelard finally saw what lay hidden: he wore a fine metal mesh pouch secured by a smaller padlock, secured with a metal ring which attached to his his belt. John had been unable to move freely at all! With one hand, Abelard grasped the full length of the pouch, kissing John with excruciating thoroughness, and bent low to kiss him before inserting the key into the padlock there. John forced himself to lie still. It clicked softly, then slid away as the belt sprang open from front to back. John gasped in relief while Abelard feasted on the wondrous sight. 

If Abelard could give voice to his thoughts, he would liken the sight to having sprung open a gated pen, holding a young bull in heat; a guarded stable where the mythical Pegasus’ restless wings, suddenly freed, triumphantly beating gloriously, poised for flight.

“Exquisite! — oh, how I sorely missed you John!” Abelard exclaimed passionately. He pulled the belt away from John’s waist at last, and held the wondrous treasure. John heard him exclaim some unfamiliar words in his native tongue, the Breton dialect of his province. 

Abelard beguilingly whispered into his ear as he pulled away the last of John’s belt,  
“What do you wish for, Crusader knight? Where do you wish to stake your sword?” 

“In you, dear Pierre— but only after you do so first. ” John whispered hoarsely into his ear. 

“Is this your wish? Even after all that has befallen you?” Abelard’s eyes widened in stunned shock.

John’s eyes darkened for a fleeting moment, then his face was composed once more.

“Yes, . I am ready now.” John gazed at him intently. Abelard brushed John's long hair from his face.

“I am ready to possess you now, John. Yet, I am older and know not my abilities. I, — l only ask for patience!” Abelard confessed. John nodded silently.

" Are you ready now?” Abelard stroked his cheek.

“Yes,— yes!” John murmured, and knelt on Abelard’s crimson cloak, . John stared into the fire, breathing deeply, He felt Abelard’s caressing hands on his back, moving down to embrace his waist and moving down lower, to embrace him. He was burning like the high flames before him. The only thought was to have the patience to gratify Abelard before himself. It was very soon that Abelard heard John say something in his native English, 

“Now, Pierre, take me now!” and John hurriedly reverting to French, “prends moi maintenant!” 

The sound of those words, so enflamed Abelard, that he overcame his anxieties and found himself tied to John in an instant. Ecstatic, Abelard gripped John’s waist harder, and with John’s encouraging words, completed their union. John heard Abelard exclaim something unintelligible. The fire blazed once more, and John moved with the flames. Soon he was riding into battle with his brother knight, as they rode in a pair, over the undulating sand dunes… His brother knight cried out, “Victory!” as he raised the standard. On and on they rode, through the twilight sky. Abelard cried out, a short strangled sound, and John felt the sand dunes fill with warm rain. Abelard fell over his back, panting, thanking him with endearments. John was still riding restlessly, and the flames burned his skin and tensed his muscles against his saddle. Then, Abelard rolled below him, and knelt in preparation. 

“Now, John, take me—have your way with me now!“ he barely finished speaking, when John was above him, gently pressing his shoulders lower. Taking him by the waist, he pulled him upwards. John closed his eyes, holding his sword, unused for some time, but still perfectly sharpened. Finding the unknown, dark center of the next sand dune, he entered fearlessly. 

He heard the sound of crackling campfires, the knights’ swords striking in unison. A man was moaning in distress, begging for a moment’s rest. John rested in his saddle, his skin covered with sweat from his exertions. He rode downhill into the dark again, tightening his grip on the reins. He reached level ground, surrounded safely by his fellow brother knights. He rode uphill again with his loyal brother knight. Abelard was now completely united to him. He sheathed his sword heated from battle, and rode up and down the cooling sand dunes, for night was coming swiftly now. He rode through the flickering campfires, past the Knights and their dames with their soft voices, past the calvary, past the half-clad gyrating dancers. John’s Arabian was a beauty of a horse, he loved him so. He rode harder until he became dizzy from the exertion. He rode towards the light ahead. Where had he seen that light before? As he rode closer, the light flashed before him, blinding him. The wind stilled suddenly and John head the long-absent Voice once more: 

“Love becomes One.” the Light’s Voice announced clearly, in the stillness. Again, it heralded its strange message: 

“Love …becomes ……One……” The Voice spoke into the Light.

John’s horse suddenly stopped in mid-gallop, bucked on its hind legs. John arched back, startled by the message, his face gazing blindly upwards into the night sky. He heard the Light whisper his name, “ John…. “ once, twice, three times. The Light blinded him again, and John again heard the Voice: 

“The True Cross is Love.” The winds remained still as the Voice announced the answer to his unasked question. 

He felt his body soaring towards the Light. He heard someone calling to him from the Light.

“I love you John!” Abelard’s voice pierced through from below the blinding Light and singular Voice.

John heard Abelard through the Light and the Voice. His words were enough; He let go of the reins, as he lifted his crossbow, took aim, and his arrow left the bow, soaring upwards and outwards. 

“Love, — love!” John cried out in a strangled voice, as he finally collapsed as his body became one with the Light and the Voice. It became one with his love, Pierre. His fulfilled body and fulfilled soul had filled the void with love. He was finally healed.


	12. "Of The Bonds of Brotherhood and The Parting"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John invites Abelard to become his "blood brother" a most painful (and erotic) ritual. It bonds them to one another for the rest of their lives.
> 
> Then, another departure...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The use of branding during Medieval times was strictly used on slaves and prisoners. Although the Knights Templar had an initiation ritual which bound all knights to one another as "brothers", it did not involve any type of branding. It was a secret ritual which eventually was a large cause of their Order's undoing and death, at the hands of the Inquisition and eventual dissolution by the Catholic Church.

Ch. 12

 

“Of The Bonds of Brotherhood and The Parting”

In the early morning, John had risen to perform his “exercises”, which he called the novel use of arms and legs which he had learned during battle. Abelard had not heard him rise from bed, so deeply asleep was he, after John had finally collapsed against him and slept with his arms about him all night long.

Now, Abelard saw the former Crusader, still a Templar knight, yet cleverly hidden into the obscurity of the secular world. John had lost his virtue while protecting the lost relics of the True Cross among the savage battlefields of the Levant. John had barely escaped with his life, his harrowing journey leading him back to his native land, to heal. Thereafter, John journeyed again to France, seeking his knowledge at his Oratory at St. Genevieve. Abelard had always known that John possessed a rare blend of practical theological and political thought, a trait which would serve him well among the powerful clergy and royal courts of both countries. John would surely surpass him very soon and sadly, he would be an “encumbrance” to his reputation. His father had warned him, that he “would always have enemies, his mind was his sword and every man would be his opponent.” Yet, his father never foresaw that John would be one of the few men, if not the only man, whom he would never consider a true opponent. He knew deeply in his soul that John would always revere him as “esteemed teacher”, as John always saluted him in his letters. He also knew that John truly loved him unconditionally to his very depths.

As he continued watching in fascination, he was stirred again, delight of delights! John had succeeded in giving him back his masculinity and pride as a man last night! Abelard was a man restored and he smiled continually, in John’s presence, when he returned from his exercises.

They spent the afternoon discussing their various theses and read aloud to one another, as in the old days at the Paris school. They went for another carriage ride to the beaches once again, where John attempted to have Abelard pick up the sword once more, to revive his rusty skills from years past. 

“I am out of my element against even a common knight, let alone a Crusader!” Abelard parried unsuccessfully. Had it not been that they were outdoors, John would have gathered Abelard in his arms and kissed the sensuous lips he loved. John was silent, content to watch his teacher’s clumsy attempts, and smiled as secretly as a well-fed cat. 

“Let us return to the inn…. nightfall is coming.” John only said in a breathless whisper, as he gathered their swords and mounted his seat in the carriage. Abelard smiled too, knowing John’s mood was amorous. They rode back in silence, breathing in the crisp night air, stealing sidelong glances at one another in the twilight. 

John quickly busied himself with the fire to comfort Abelard, who had begun to cough on their carriage ride towards the inn. The chambermaid had left them a new flask of wine and sweetbreads with meats, as Abelard had left her several more francs than the day before. As the fire was building, Abelard announced to a surprised John.

“I have a most unexpected surprise for you which I have been planning for some time. Ever since you had gone to Chartres, I have been doing some research of my own.” Abelard smiled as if keeping a great secret.

He removed a small scroll from his travel bundle and beckoned John to recline by the fire. He began to recite in his distinct voice:

“I hold thee ever in my heart, absent, Mu’tamid prays  
That endless as his tearful nights may be thy pleasant days,  
Impatient of the bridle, “tis but thy small hands may guide me;  
My desire is all a longing till I see thee stand beside me.  
Ah, love of mine, the days increase, forget not Ibn Abbad.  
Dear name, I trace it on my heart forever —Itimad.”

Abelard fell silent, expectantly awaiting John’s reaction. Normally a restrained man, John was blinking very hard, deeply affected by the poem. Clearly surprised at Abelard’s choice of the same poet he had read to him on their first night, years ago, he asked.

“How did you come upon the French version of Mu’tamid’s poem?” 

“Ah,— one of my students showed me a small collection of his poetry, which my student had found in his uncle’s possessions, after he had returned from the wars. He did not know where his uncle had obtained these but he said that most likely, they were found among the Iberian knights’ campsites. They were recited or sung by traveling minstrels. I believe they will someday become famous for their romantic poetry.” Abelard mused.

“”My eternal thanks for your poem, especially found by you! I too, wish to trace your name in my heart forever. I know that we can never be united as man and wife, but we can be brothers — blood brothers of the soul.” John gazed at him so intently, his eyes the color of the blue-green waters of the Provencal Mediterranean. Abelard’s breath caught in his throat, as he gazed back, and murmured:

“And how is this blood brother union achieved? Must I be a Templar knight as yourself?” Abelard questioned. John rose silently, walking to his large travel bundle. He pulled out a long, dusty black box and proceeded to place it by Abelard’s feet where he sat. 

“When a Templar knight chooses a blood brother, that man becomes a full Templar knight by attrition. However, he must have certain merits. Your merits are that you have performed works of charity towards the unschooled of this continent, written large quantities of hymns for the Church, suffered persecution for your works and tragically, shed your blood at the hands of enemies who wrongfully condemned you of abandoning your marital vows, which you still hold sacred to this day, as you have not taken another woman to marry.” John paused for breath, as he was unaccustomed to lengthy conversations. 

Abelard heard John’s certainty and authority of the things of which he spoke. He did not argue his points and concluded that John had thought much on this subject for quite some time. 

“Yes, — you are right John. In all points and i have no rebuttal. Most humbly, i accept your offer and it would be a great honor to become your blood brother. When shall we accomplish this?” he asked, with slight nervousness regarding what the word “blood” entailed for him.

“Tonight, if you wish. It may take some days for me to watch over you and tend to you… you shall understand in a moment…” John attempted to explain, as he turned his eyes towards the box. He went on then, quietly explaining the ritual, the slight cuts to their skin in order to exchange each other’s blood in droplets and choosing a place on their bodies in which to rub the blood onto their skin. 

“We shall exchange one another’s blood first. You shall rub my blood on a place on your body of your choosing.” John removed two slender rods and three small iron attachments. Abelard gasped audibly at first, then stifled his fears.

“You shall choose one of these brands and I will brand you very, very quickly with it, wherever you wish. Then you shall do likewise, and if you cannot summon the courage, I shall brand my own flesh. I am accustomed to the pain of this procedure as part of my initiation into the Templar Order.” he reassured his nervous teacher. 

“As — as I have said, it would be a great honor!” Abelard repeated with newfound resolve, although John could still detect his fearfulness. Wordlessly, Abelard pointed to one of the attachments, a rose florette. It was the smallest attachment, appearing the least painful to be subjected to. John chose the rectangular, embellished key shape. He attempted to jest with Abelard, to calm his nerves.

“Whenever I gaze upon this key, I shall remember when you unlocked my belt.” he smiled and raised his eyebrow. Abelard briefly smiled in return. John silently began the process of heating both branding irons while Abelard drank another mug of the burgundy, to prepare for the ordeal. Within several minutes, John lay the heated rods by the hearth and both proceeded to cut their forearms and perform the blood exchange. Then John beckoned Abelard to take the glowing rod with the key brand by the wrist handles, and John lay on the bed . He pointed to his right breast, where he had rubbed Abelard’s blood.

“Here, Pierre — the key to wisdom— your wisdom, here near my heart!” Brand me for a count of ten at most and then remove it when I say!” John steeled himself now. Fixing his eyes on the marked breast, Abelard counted, then aimed straightaway, steeling his mind and nerves as the iron sizzled against John’s breast. The tortuous count to ten began as John grunted loudlyl biting into the end of his pillow, until the count of ten was over. Abelard shakily brought the iron to the hearth, and quickly placed a clean cloth over the angry burnt skin, to stop the bleeding. John gasped in pain, but pointed to the lard and aloe salve, which Abelard applied over the newly branded area. John lay with his eyes shut, breathing raggedly, but did not complain at all. After a time, he found his voice once more and sat up clutching his breast. Abelard wiped the sweat from John's forehead and murmured endearments to him. When John gathered his wits about him again, he took the other brand with the rose florette, and Abelard lay on the bed, already rubbing John’s blood over his left breast. 

“I want it here John. The rose to symbolize your heart always near mine!” he declared. He already had the pillow between his teeth and gripped the bedposts for support. Abelard nodded to show his readiness. 

“Gaze into my eyes first, Pierre. Have courage, it will be over quickly!” John leaned down to kiss him before taking the iron between his wrists. Abelard drowned in his loving gaze, and he bit into the pillow as John counted, “one, two,—three —now!” The burn was so total, that his breath left him. He saw a myriad of stars and spots before his eyes. All of his sins were finally burning away and his heart nearly burst in the searing pain. Yet, he continued looking at John with half-closed eyes. His ears began to ring and his senses were dulling into a half-faint. and then a blessed dark void. Someone in that void was prodding and shaking him, calling his name through a long corridor. He felt something cool against his forehead and opened his eyes.

“Pierre … can you hear me?” John spoke closely near his face. Abelard saw the beloved face again, the beautiful blue eyes… he was regaining his senses again, and had lived through the pain. 

“Yes,,, yes! I am recovering, —“ Abelard smiled as his face was bathed in sweat. John sighed with great relief and tended to him immediately. His own wound still burned terribly, but he denied the pain, and busied himself with assisting Abelard. After he was covered in salve and clean cloths, John sat beside him on the bed, and drank the rest of the wine. Abelard laughed despite his pain, remarking.

“I have never seen you drink so rapidly and fortunately, the chambermaid left another flask for tomorrow evening. I shall need to ask you for some extra francs to give our young maid!” 

John also laughed, and also embraced Abelard, calling him, “a brave Templar blood brother, indeed!” 

They ate and drank the rest of the wine, to soothe their pains, and they retired early, as they were still in moderate pain. They lay together in the dimly lit room, the fire dying down to a flickering row of thin flames. Abelard heard John’s quiet voice in the dark, as he felt his arms about him.

“As your blood brother now, master, I shall honor and promote your works in the secular world. I will protect your name at every opportunity should one speak ill of you. But most of all, —“ he paused, and his fingers touched Abelard’s lips. Abelard could still make out the lines of John’s face and see his calm blue eyes in the dim light. Abelard looked at them now, and his pride crumbled as he considered the honor of being John’s blood brother now. 

“I shall humbly love you always and forever and keep our love a secret until the day I die.” Abelard said these words in John’s native English, and John was stirred to the core. John gathered his teacher in his arms and kissed him, longingly, deeply. How could the world think that his teacher was arrogant, hard to be acquainted with, and exceedingly proud? This man in his arms now was the very model of humility and love. 

“I would die for you Pierre… do you know this?” John kissed him once more, and Abelard allowed him to go on, despite the pain in his breast. John wanted him, yes he did! Abelard felt his loins stirring, oh, delight of delights! 

“I want you now, John, do what you wish to me — take my pain away tonight!” Abelard groaned as John searched in the dark for his blood brother's stirring flesh. 

“Anything I wish? “ John whispered into his ear, as he held him in the dark. Abelard clutched his breast in pain and yet, wanted him desperately. He gasped aloud in delight as John clutched his waist and he felt his long hair falling over his navel. 

“Yes,—yes! Brand me to you with your fiery kisses, and your heated body, as you have done with the brand!” he whispered fiercely as he wove his hands in John’s hair. 

“Anything for my new blood brother!” John promised, and the night went on into the heated, healing hours of midnight, and then, afterwards, into the quiet sleep under the deep moonlight hours. 

 

********************************

The last days and nights at the Loire-Atlantique:

Their brands crusted over and the pain lessening to a dull burn, Abelard and John completed many corrections on their theses. John promised to show his to the young Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux, a close associate of the Chartres School. He also had a plan to promote Abelard’s new thesis: The Trinitarian Christianum, a much more sober work, adhering to the established thought of the Church. Abelard had confessed to John that he needed to remain at his monastery in order to assist Heloise with her Order’s new Rule for her nuns there. He also confessed that his health was “fragile as of late” and he did not wish to uproot himself constantly. John was melancholy at the words: his teacher was aging, even though, in his eyes, he was nearly indestructible. The young always places their paternal parents and esteemed figures in this pedestal of immortality in this manner, he thought soberly, as he watched Abelard making more corrections while sipping his wine. 

All too soon, it was their final evening alone together at the Inn. They feasted on a small hen and potatoes, and drank a delicately flavored white wine. John drank a little more than he was accustomed to, as he was melancholy most of the afternoon. He realized it, and attempted to cheer Abelard and himself by reciting some poetry by the English and Scottish bards. 

“We are a seafaring people, unaccustomed to true romance.” he declared ruefully, as Abelard laughed in protest.

“Well, Sir John, I believe you should have been a Frankish knight instead. For your amount of romance would set the entire fleet of Britain into disarray!” he countered. John hid his laugh behind his hand and his eyes shone tenderly. Their final night of union … the moments, sight and sounds of one another to etch forever into one another’s memories. The happiness of being secretly branded blood brothers, despite the painful ordeal. The quiet conversations in one another’s arms, speaking of their deepest thoughts which no man knew but they. How Abelard confessed that he loved John more than anyone, even his beloved Heloise. And John’s answer to that stunning revealation: that he always knew that to be so, and that he would be the one to bury Heloise, if he outlived her. Abelard was greatly comforted.

The Departure: 

They both stand at the main dock at the outskirts of town, anxiously waiting for the call to board the ship back across the channel to Britain. John wore his heavier dark blue cloak, and was accompanied by only Abelard, as the rest of the ambassador’s contingent were still remaining in Chartres on further business. He received word that he had been summoned John back to Britain, as the Archbishop of Canterbury was awaiting his return, expecting a full report on John’s business with the French. John solemnly gazed into the gray-blue choppy waters, reluctant to leave his teacher once more, not knowing when he would see him again. Abelard was to return to the monastery that very day, with the carriage driver to fetch him after the noon hour. John had given Abelard fifty francs to pay for the journey, knowing that his teacher did not have the ample income that he once enjoyed in Paris. The ship’s horn blew three times, for all passengers to board within ten minutes. Both men tersely made their final conversations about important matters and reminders about their works, promising to send them to one another as soon as they were completed. After the first five minutes, John turned his eyes from the ship, back to Abelard, and his throat tightened.

“Do not forget your medicinals and powders and the mixture amounts I have calculated for you…” he gazed into his teachers reddened cheeks and eyes. Abelard wrapped his collar tightly over his neck. 

“When you are back at the King’s court, do not mention my works to those clergy which oppose my arguments about the Trinitarian Scholarium, my older work. Never defend that work of mine, as I have been silenced and excommunicated. I do not want you to suffer on my account. …” Abelard set his mouth in a thin line in dismay and sadness. John reached for his forearm, squeezing it underneath his cloak, in silent sympathy. 

“I pledge my word to honor, protect and defend my ——“ he began and Abelard joined in,

“blood brother as long as I live, as God is my witness.” they whispered together in agreement, their gazes for only each other now. The remaining minutes disappeared all too quickly, and the horn sounded loudly once, for all to board at once. A short line of passengers began to form at the dock now. Smiling sadly, John made a valiant attempt in his best French, whispering fervently:

“I shall never forget all the love you have given me these most happiest days and nights of my life, my blood brother.” John whispered as his hand wove through Abelard’s cloak to find his left breast. He gently pressed it against his florette rose brand. Abelard closed his eyes to savor his secret touch. 

Nor I, my dear blood brother and may we meet again very soon once more. and if not —“ he paused to gaze into John’s eyes once more. He being older, had a fleeting premonition, which evaporated as soon as it took hold in his mind. 

“I shall be yours always in spirit and take great comfort that I am close to your heart.” Abelard wove his hand through John’s heavy cloak and squeezed the indelible key there. How desperately sad was John’s expression! How Abelard’s alert eyes were dulled with sadness as John blinked hard. Abelard gazed into his beautiful eyes once more.

“I kiss your eyes… farewell.” he whispered for John’s ears alone.

“I kiss your mouth… farewell” John whispered hoarsely. Then, he suddenly turned and quickly walked down the dock towards the ship without looking back. He only wanted to remember Abelard’s touch, his loving words and his face so close to his. Abelard watched John’s tall, solitary figure walking to the ship, until he boarded. He watched the ship began to slowly move away from the dock, its white sails beginning to billow in the wind. For the first time, he noticed the large red crosses on them: the Templars Cross. He touched his left breast where John’s hand had been. He was John’s blood brother now, a templar knight, and John’s clear words echoed in his mind, “your sword is your mind, the greatest intellect of this age It will connect the age of antiquity to this age of reason and men’s minds will be enlightened in the future because of your fearless desire to promote the true meaning of all things.” John had spoken those words, in a rare moment of verbal expressiveness. John could speak so profoundly, when he chose to, which was not often.

His eyes strained to glimpse the tall, familiar figure once more. He saw a man standing away from all the others, towards the back of the ship, one arm raised. He raised his own in response, until the man was no more and the ship was out of sight. He returned to the path of tall grasses, to walk back to the inn. John was walking beside him… in the tall grasses, wearing his battle practice armor, as he looked on that afternoon, when he had so enamored him with his skills and manliness. John had given him his own masculinity back again. His eyes burned and scalding tears fell down his cheeks as he began to hurry back to his room…

He entered the too quiet room and began to pack his possessions before noon. He fetched his large travel bundle and feeling for the bottom of it, he felt a square, flat package there, tied with thin cord. He noticed John’s familiar writing on it; “To my T. B.B.” It could only signify three words known to only both now. He opened it hastily and to his supreme surprise and joy, it was a portrait in miniature, of John. An unknown artist had painted his facial likeness, but who had done this perfect likeness? Whoever the unknown artist was, had captured John’s solemn yet calm countenance. But it was his eyes which drew him, intently gazing at him, even in absence. Unknown to John, he had placed a similar parcel in his travel bundle and hoped that during the sea voyage, he would pass the time with his gift to him. 

***************************************************************************************

John went below deck, into his small cabin, reserved for him by the Crown. A pitcher of water and wine with a small bowl of cheeses awaited him, compliments from the Captain. He gave half of the cheese to the chambermaid who brought him fresh linens and his mail. He was still melancholy because of his departure from his teacher and wished solitude. He set about reading his mail first, to see what awaited him back in Britain. The Archbishop of Canterbury wanted him back to continue his instruction to a certain Thomas Beckett, a promising young assistant to his office. He wanted to know of his dealings with the Chartres council. John poured himself a half glass of wine and sat on his bed, thinking of Abelard. He looked at his travel bundle and decided to store his mail inside. He opened the flap and as he delved inside for a space to place the mail, he felt two medium sized set of scrolls. Pulling them out curiously, he noticed the black ribbon tied about them and a note attached to one of them. It read:

Dear T. B.B.

My parting gift to you: the first scroll labeled #1, I have written in honor of you, during the years apart.

The second scroll #2, I have most recently written, this past week. Place these scrolls, especially #2 in the most secure place within your abode. They are for your eyes only. Burn this note.

P. 

Greatly intrigued, and assured that no one would disturb his rest, he locked his cabin door, and lying on his cot, he began to read scroll #2: 

 

Beloved, when I look into thine eyes I see them in my vision every night  
Upwelling in old wonder and delight I know that thou hast looked on Paradise.  
Beloved, I have looked into thy face, And I shall never be as heretofore, 

Because my soul desires thee evermore: May love’s sustaining guardians give me grace.  
Thine eyes have drawn my soul out through mine eyes. Beloved, thou hast robbed me of my soul.

No part thereof thou takest, but the whole That thou requitest in love’s Paradise.

 

John stared through the porthole, into the open sea, as he saw Abelard’s face there, recalling the night they became blood brothers and his teacher wanted to gaze into his eyes, before he was branded. John loved his eyes too, alert, in his still handsome face, filled with seductions to come, surprisingly gentle for a proud and arrogant man. That was the essence of Pierre: his depth of character that was always below the surface, waiting for John to discover. Abelard’s ardent declarations of love rang in his mind:

“Ah, John! You do not know the half of it! I would do anything for you, but never for any other!” his teacher passionately cried out that night after he was branded and lay clutching his newly burned flesh. After the branding, they had made love with a ferocity, to stave the pain and to seal their new bonds of brotherhood. 

Every night left to them of the remainder of their time was thus, and Abelard had delighted in John’s unrestrained utterances of love and devotion, now that he had him as a blood brother for life. It seemed as if the branding has fulfilled some deep longing in John. John had been awakened by Abelard and was insatiable in his passions now. How would he go on without Pierre? He had found his liege-lord now and he wanted to love and protect Pierre until his last breath. 

John turned his gaze from the ocean, and fixed upon a small bowl of fruit on his table. He recalled the humble apricots, he and his teacher kneeling together, that afternoon from whence began their declarations of love, unto this time just spent together in blissful seclusion. 

... After the branding, I held you in my arms, as you were in great pain and tended to your wound. You said you would do anything for me, and I answered, “yes you have branded yourself for me, and I am at a loss for words, master.” You kissed me most passionately then, and declared most bravely, “Yes, John I would gladly suffer so again, if you wished it.” And I answered “No, It is too much pain for you to suffer. Once is enough dear Pierre.” Then, you said, “I am in a different kind of pain and burning at the moment… which only you can relieve.” 

John closed his eyes, seeing Abelard’s handsome face, and hearing his thrilling, sensuous voice, John was already heated and sorely missing his absence. How would he go on without him, until the next time of their meeting, if God granted them that privilege? The prospect of loneliness stretched out before him, as endless as the sea.


	13. "Sic:  I Know"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1142, as Abelard is ultimately excommunicated and silenced by the Pope, he undertakes a desperate journey to Rome, in order o plead his case and reverse the charges against him. The harrowing journey takes a massive toll on his health and he contracts the ravages of scurvy He stops at the monastery at Cluny for shelter and ends up remaining there indefinitely.   
> He decides to end his teaching days and only wants to be left in peace.
> 
> John was instrumental in influencing Bernard of Claivaux, to reconsider his stance and to persuade the Pope to lift the ban on Abelard.
> 
>  
> 
> John journeys unannounced, to see the ailing Abelard in March of 1142 bearing a letter from the Pope and Bernard of Claivaux, pardoning him of his excommunication and 'silence" and also a personal letter of apology and reconciliation from Bernard, to the ill Abelard. 
> 
> John remains with the ill Abelard for a time, to tend to his needs. By now, Abelard is in a semi-alert state of confusion, yet is still aware of John's presence, the Pope's pardon and Bernard's offer of reconciliation.

Ch. 13

"Sic: I Know"

 

Early Winter of 1141:

John returned to Chartres to resume his studies and begins to make new and powerful contacts within the Church. He finally meets Bernard of Claivaux, the brilliant and zealous young abbot who has risen to spectacular renown at the tender age of twenty-five. His influence with the Pope is so great that he was appointed to the committee at Soissons and Sens to investigate Abelard’s latest works and after John had unsuccessfully attempted to sway his opinion that Abelard’s logic was based on solid Scriptural teachings, Bernard submitted a letter to the Pope, requesting that Abelard’s work be banned once again. The Pope agreed and also, that he be excommunicated. Abelard, now older and suffering the beginnings of scurvy, decided to undertake a pilgrimage to Rome, to plead his case directly with the Pope. 

John is called back to Britain in order to assist the Archbishop of Canterbury as his newly appointed secretary. During his first months, he meets the young Thomas Beckett, who is favored by the King, and has been assigned as envoy to the Archbishop. The two men become acquainted with one another, and John mentors him regarding the leading political figures in both England and France. Because of Abelard’s precarious status with the Pope, he is careful within France, not to overstate Abelard’s case to Bernard’s inner circle. He plans to travel to the Paraclete, in hopes of finding Abelard there with Heloise, taking refuge from the firestorm of controversy once again surrounding him. 

John, being a rational, moderate man, was in the midst of planning his journey to his old teacher, and had a plan to have him seek asylum in Britain, within Canterbury’s protection. That was his argument, yet, secretly, he terribly missed him and wished to look after him at a closer distance. The frequent journeys between both countries at times, delayed the completion of his official duties as well as stalled his own private works. His latest work, a monumental treatise on warfare and politics, took up his considerable free time. He wished for Abelard to read some excerpts and critique it, as in the old days together at the Paris School. 

Late Winter, 1142: Abelard had undertaken the tiring journey from his monastery en route to Rome, to plead his case. He got no further than Cluny, when he received word at the monastery there, that the Pope's order of excommunication was already in effect, and his papal envoys were being sent to France to stop his journey. Without any other options, and beginning to feel ill and worn out from traveling, Abelard’s intended journey ended in Cluny’s monastery, where he decided to take temporary shelter. The head Abbot, Peter the Venerable, coaxed the aging scholar to remain within his monastery’s walls for his own protection. Abelard consented and the magnanimous abbot at once had his monks care for Abelard’s mysterious skin rashes and advise all to treat him with the utmost esteem, as befitted the greatest scholar of the age. 

In a quickly dispatched letter, Peter then entreated Bernard to forgo any retaliation and to beg the Pope to reverse the excommunication order. He argued that Abelard had agreed to seek sanctuary and did not wish to teach any longer due to illness and age, and only wanted to be left alone in peace. To which, Bernard surprisingly agreed and sent an urgent letter to the Pope regarding a pardon from the excommunication. The Pope’s letter granting the pardon was received within the week and Bernard wanted it to be personally delivered to Abelard as soon as possible. 

What Abelard did not know was, that behind the scenes, Bernard had met John. Because of John’s status as a Templar knight and Bernard’s uncle was one of the nine original Templar Order founders, Bernard had requested that John meet with him in private. Bernard spent much time alone with John, discussing the knights’ way of life and in his spiritual eyes, John seemed the perfect embodiment of chivalry and spiritual discipline. John had also told him of his experiences with finding the True Cross relics and Bernard had revealed that the Grand Master, Hugh de Payens, had brought it to his uncle’s attention that John had suffered most cruelly at the hands of the enemy, in his attempts to protect the relics at all costs. Bernard was made aware of it and of John’s decision to leave the battlefield and serve the Church and Crown instead. Thus, Bernard formed a very high regard for John’s integrity and entrusted John with personally bringing the Pope’s letter to Abelard as soon as possible. 

************************************

Meanwhile, Abelard was safely under the guardianship of the saintly abbot, Peter the Venerable. The monks were eager for a word from the great scholar and lined up by his door to gain entry into his room, where he would honor them with a few minutes of conversation or agree to read some of their poetry or hymns. Abelard was grateful for the kindnesses shown to him by Abbot Peter and his brothers. The Abbess and nuns from the adjoining convent often came to bring him the early fruits of spring and to tend to him, with ointments and herbs for his skin, which had begun to itch now. Abelard saw the colorful fruits on his table: apples, figs, and apricots… he reached for a pale orange apricot, feeling the humble, silky fruit. He whispered one word: 

“John!”

Closing his eyes, he pictured John kneeling with him in his old room in Paris, recalling the sublime moments when hey had first kissed and made love. He was such a rogue and seducer in those days! He had finally met his like in John, who was everything he was not: young, moderate in temperament, a born diplomat, and magnificently virile and passionate, once Abelard had unlocked John's mind from his inner traumas. Had John been born a woman, he would have been just as bedazzled by his physical charms. For in John’s features and form, Abelard had found masculine perfection of never-ending delight. If that were not enough to please the gods, John had the soul of a true knight, loyal and true to the death, which Abelard himself knew that he lacked.

He had failed Heloise, and fully realized that he had been selfish to put her away for life. The truth was: because of his castration, it had caused him tremendous guilt over his lustful nature and in his mind, it was more of a kindness to “ push her away” from him in his letters, and take all of the blame for their calamity upon his own shoulders. Hence, his continual refrain for her to embrace God and not him, her earthly husband. 

And yet … he had allowed himself to become intimate with John and his body had reawakened in a way he had not dared to think possible any longer. It was always so between them; this unexplainable hypnotic spell that John would cast over him, which began in his loins and ended in his mind and heart. He touched his left breast where the florette rose brand was now a brownish-wine color, whose petals had flattened over time.

“John…” he murmured, as he took a small bite of the apricot. Drops of the apricot’s juice spilled onto his fingers. 

Abelard licked the sweet juice from his fingers, and closed his eyes: he saw the image of John during their last night of intimacy together. John kneeling above him in the dark, Abelard feeling his long hair brushing against his chest, as he kissed his still-painful brand. The shock of pain and desire that he felt when John’s lips brushed over his raw wound. John’s low voice in the dark, thanking him for bearing the pain of it, to be his blood brother. Then, no more words from John — only the sounds of loving and desire. The branding had awakened John’s senses to heights that left Abelard stunned and satiated by the end of the night. And finally, Abelard remembered John in the throes of passion, and Abelard’s breathing became shallow. Desire swept over him as the apricot’s sweet taste filled his mouth. He wished with every fiber of his being to see John and make love to him just once more. He would beg him to take him away from this cursed land. That he would take the first ship and sail with him across the Channel than remain in a country who had turned against him. That he would die in England with John, content to live in anonymity for the rest of his life. This was Abelard’s miserable state when he entered the monastery at Cluny, headed by Peter The Venerable. 

****************************************************************

February, 1142: John journeys to Chartres to meet with the influential Bernard of Claivaux. The meeting was regarding Abelard’s status of excommunication and silencing, by the Pope. John brings a recent letter from Peter the Venerable, stating that Abelard has made the decision to discontinue teaching and to devote the rest of his life to peacefully living the strict monastic Rule of his monastery. Bernard finally put away his years of contention with the brilliant scholar and teacher and wrote a personal letter of forgiveness to Abelard. He greatly wished for Abelard to reciprocate his gesture and for the two to shake hands in peace. 

********************************************

March 1142: John makes his unannounced journey to Cluny as soon as he departs Chartres to the monastery at Cluny, with the letters from the Pope and another, from Bernard of Claivaux securely on his person. He has not told Peter The Venerable or Abelard of his plans, as events had hastily unfolded between Rome and Chartres. As he makes his hasty early morning journey to Cluny, John recalls Bernard’s parting words: 

“Although Abelard’s theories on Christianity border greatly on overuse of logic, I do believe he has a true Christian core of beliefs as he has shown in his many hymns and psalters for the Church. For this reason, I see him as a fellow brother and extend my forgiveness to him in that spirit.”

To which John revealed to Bernard for the first time,

“You may think it very surprising, but Abelard is my Templar spiritual blood brother. I initiated him in the proper spiritual method used for non-combatants and he is knight in his own right, as his father was once a knight during the wars against the anti-christian Visigoths. With his friendship, he had greatly healed me mentally, of all of my sufferings from my captivity in the Holy Land of which you are fully aware. He has earned it I assure you, from his own physical calamity, abstinence and years of separation from his wife Heloise. “ John spoke plainly as one man to another. Greatly impressed, Bernard wished him godspeed and pleaded for him to convince Abelard to reconcile with him. 

John finally arrived at Cluny just before an unexpected snowstorm. The first heavy, gray snow clouds had moved down from the north, and densely covered the late afternoon sky as his carriage stopped at the simply built monastery. The monks welcomed him at once, as soon as they heard him announce his name. 

“Ah yes! Master Abelard has often spoken of you fondly, John of Salisbury, his former pupil in Paris!” they exclaimed in excited whispers, as they led him down the corridor to meet Abbot Pierre, their saintly spiritual guide. One of the monks entered a room before all of the others, apparently to inform Abbot Peter about their guest. 

John entered the small chamber where the elder Abbot sat, hands folded. John removed his hood and looked at the simply robed man. The younger monk respectfully bowed to John and left him alone with the head abbot of their Order. 

“Good evening Sir John of Salisbury. I have heard of you from Master Abelard’s own lips. Welcome to our humble abode and I ask, to what do we owe the honor of your visit here at Cluny?” he asked directly, gazing at John with amiable kindness.

“ I have just come from a council meeting in Chartres, and have also privately met with Bernard of Claivaux. He has given me two very important letters to personally deliver to master Abelard: one is a letter from the Pope himself to Bernard, granting him pardon. As you are now the guardian over Abelard you have the privilege of opening the Pope’s letter of pardon, if you wish.” John announced solemnly as he handed the elderly Abbot the Pope’s letter addressed to Abelard. 

“I understand that Bernard has his own copy of the pardon letter: this copy here in this envelope, is a second copy, intended for Abelard himself. I have not opened this sealed envelope at all, so as to respect Abelard’s privacy to read it himself. I have not also opened Bernard’s personal letter to him, for the same reason. I am only the messenger and came in great haste, as ordered by Bernard himself. Apparently, he perceives that Abelard must know about this as soon as possible. He also had expressed to me personally, that he wished to extend a most humble apology to master Abelard, for all that he has done against him in the past and most humbly seeks a reconciliation with him at this time.” John thoroughly explained the reason for his unannounced and crucial visit.

The Abbot nodded several times while John spoke in his low, pleasant voice. He noticed John’s fine but subdued clothing. He also recognized John’s gleaming Crusader’s Cross. He knew most everything of John’s past, except the truth: he didn’t know for a fact that Abelard and John were lovers. He had been among monks and scholars all of his life and he knew the cross of chastity was overcome by very, very few men. 

“I am most grateful for your visit. It is well that you come now, at this unannounced time. Master Abelard is frail, and no longer teaching. He wishes to live out his remaining time on earth here at our monastery and wants to be left alone in peaceful solitude to read and follow the rhythms of our Rule here. Abbot Peter calmly looked at John, and he didn’t need to ask any questions: Without a doubt, he could see the growing concern and even sadness at the news of Abelard’s physical condition. 

“I see, Abbot Pierre. He must be very resigned to his fate indeed. That is not like him at all, however … even men such as he, must accept the will of God.” John sadly murmured. Abbot Peter liked John’s calmness and clear-sightedness. Abelard had been correct in his description of John: the Abbot clearly saw that he greatly understood his friend and teacher. Their bonds of friendship were indeed strong. 

“Take some refreshment first — then I will take you to him.” Abbot Peter moved towards a small tray by his table and offered John a small cup of cider wine. 

“Thank you for your hospitality.” John took the small cup and took a few sips. After a few moments, he started to rise.

“Thank you Abbot Pierre —— but, I am most anxious to see my friend.”

“Yes, yes — as you must be! I will take you to him now then.” Abbot Peter rose as well and together they walked down the dim corridor to the last room on the end. John heard a slight noise: it seemed as if a chair moved and he heard the rustling of a tablet. As Abbot Peter gently pushed him forward by his shoulders, and quietly withdrew, John suddenly felt like all students who meet their former masters after a lengthy period; anxious, wondering whether they will be recognized after so long an absence and feeling the love well up for their mentor of many years ago. John quietly opened the door very slowly slowly, and saw Abelard sitting at his desk, pen in hand, an open tablet and books in front of him, his head rest on his crossed elbows, as if napping or thinking. John saw the long straight strands of gray hair falling over his crossed arms, saw the vials of medicinals nearby on his nightside table, a simple crucifix on the wall opposite his bed, a small shelf of books and a small lavage basin beside his bed. John’s mind lurched backwards in time, as he remembered another room, another lavage basin, Abelard using the lavage to cleanse him on the outside, and afterwards, heal him on the inside. 

John slowly entered the room, noiselessly, as was his custom. Upon hearing a sound, Abelard lifted his head from his desk. He saw someone in a long cloak, dark clothing, moving towards him. The long, dark hair beginning to show a few strands of graying near the temples, the open cloak exposing a glinting silver cross… Abelard sat up at once, his vision blurred and then sharpened. He scratched his reddening cheeks. The small red pimples there began to itch. He looked again and blinked hard, unbelieving of who it was. Light blue-green eyes, the color of the Mediterranean in summer; Abelard attempted to stand but his legs failed him and sinking down into his chair again, he gasped,

“Mon Dieu! — it is an apparition of my blood brother, John…” he said, clutching his left breast, rubbing the space over his heart. 

John reached for his teacher, and held his frail, cold shoulders; his teacher trembled at his touch. Dear God! He was so frail now -- he had come in time, before Abelard — no! John refused to think of it now. He saw the dear face, the lips he loved, and then, unable to stop himself, his mouth covered Abelard’s in a passionate kiss. Abelard made a gasping, inhaling sound like a stifled sob, and kissed the vision that was John. His soul suddenly took flight from his body as John enveloped him in his warm arms, flooding his cold, ill body.

“It is I, John, come back to you again!” John whispered into his teacher’s ear, and almost sobbed uncontrollably against Pierre’s shoulder, as he kissed him repeatedly. 

“Now, Lord, take me, for I can now die in peace.” Abelard closed his eyes in bliss and slumped his head down onto his arms again. John lifted his teacher from the chair and took him to the small bed. He laid him down gently and bent over him so that Abelard could see him closely. His eyes looked dull, unfocused, as if some unnamed illness was already claiming him. John felt a wave of sadness come over his spirit; he had come just in time. He would stay and care for him, if need be and if the good Abbot consented. They had been apart for far too long again and John’s place was here with Pierre now.

“John! At last you have come to me! Did they send for you?” Abelard focused a little more intently on him. John settled Pierre onto the bed more comfortably and rearranged the quilted blanket around his shoulders. 

“If you are alert and have your wits about you, I shall show you something which will gladden your heart.” John smiled and Abelard gazed at John, still unsure whether he would disappear like an apparition. 

John took out the two letters, and placed them into Pierre’s hands,

“My eyes are not well John, pray read them to me.” he pleaded and John grieved inwardly. He opened the envelope with the Papal Seal and began to read:

“ Pope Clement III, of the Holy See of Rome, hereby declares that on this day, the nineteenth day of February, 1142, that Pierre Abelard, citizen of France, be pardoned and exonerated from the status of excommunication from the Catholic Church, and such ban will be lifted on this day. The other bans of silence and heresy are also, herewith lifted on this day. Aforementioned lifting of all bans approved by Papal Decree as witnessed by the Holy See and approved with the Royal seal of the His Majesty King Louis VII of France."

John read the official announcement to an incredulous Abelard, who lay with his eyes closed and smiled with the most heartbreaking expression of peaceful resignation on his face. John gave Pierre the Pope’s letter and he held it in his hands, without comment, but was clearly moved. He looked at John, and asked only one question,

“Did you have a part in this?” Abelard’s eyes grew more alert once again, as he suddenly asked with urgency.

"Only that Bernard’s uncle had told him of my service during the Crusades. In truth, it was Bernard's conscience that caused the heart of the Pope to change in your favor.” John answered truthfully. He removed Bernard’s letter from his cloak pocket.

“This is a letter addressed to you from Bernard. I met with him at the council at Chartres last month and he expressly wanted me to deliver this to you.” John waited for Pierre to take it.

“I beg you to read it to me. I cannot —“ Abelard closed his eyes again. 

John read the page long letter to his teacher slowly and clearly so that Pierre could understand.

“… if you find it in your heart to forgive an overzealous young disciple, who has made the mistake of condemning your logic, for unbelief. Who now only wishes you God’s peace on earth, before meeting your heavenly reward. “ John read through the last paragraph. Abelard was silently listening and rested his hand on John’s arm. 

“I anxiously await your reply, which I entrust no one else but John of Salisbury, your spiritual brother, to inform me. I pray that the Lord will continue to bless you with His peace at the monastery of Cluny, under the saintly and capable headship of Peter the Venerable.

Your brother in Christ,  
Bernard de Claivaux"

A pregnant silence filled the room as John finished reading. Pierre squeezed his arm and in a low voice, asked,

“I rely on you John, who knows Bernard better than I, what say you of his heart?” Abelard made an effort to formulate his thoughts. He was becoming more fatigued.

“He is most contrite and deeply regrets his former denouncements of you and your works. His uncle is one of the original Templar knights who founded the Order. He revealed to Bernard what had befallen me in the enemies’ hands. Bernard is the Templars’ spiritual father, therefore he placed his trust in me to deliver these to you.” John confessed. 

Abelard closed his eyes again, absently stroking John’s arm for several long moments. His brow was furrowed and after another long moment, he sighed tiredly.

“My Crusader knight has done well… It is time for me to also forgive. I may not live another summer.” Pierre whispered weakly, as if conversing with himself. 

He looked at John who was leaning over him and stroking his cheek. Was this his John? This apparition? A man with a few streaks of gray at his temples, a few wrinkled lines around his eyelids and the corners around his mouth. He saw the glimmering Cross on his breast — it was his John. He touched John’s right breast, over the ornate key there. John held Abelard’s hand fast. Abelard gazed into his eyes, and was lost...

“For you John… I will do it for you. I must decrease, and you must increase.” his teacher whispered fervently. 

John pondered Pierre’s strange words from the biblical account of John The Baptist’s words to Jesus. In his own way, Abelard was finally releasing his lifelong pride and ego, making way for John to take his rightful place in the world of men. John softly stroked Pierre’s hand, which still lay over his forearm. Pierre was still somewhat alert but John saw that the signs of an unknown illness was soon to claim him. It was God’s will that Pierre finally stop his lifelong running from his intellectual enemies. 

“Tell him — tell him that I accept. I give you permission John!” Pierre reached for John’s arm. 

“Do not fret Abelard… I will send him an urgent reply in the morning, at first light!” John took his hand as he solemnly promised. 

Abelard sank his head down on his pillow in fatigued relief. Just then, the door opened; Abbot Peter had the brothers bring a small cot into Abelard’s room, for John’s comfort, and some food for him after his long journey. The abbot was comforted and grateful for John’s solicitous attention in caring for Abelard. He gave John the key to Abelard’s room, to lock it from the inside and then tactfully left them alone in each other’s company until the morning after he bade John a restful night. 

John locked Abelard’s door from the inside and secured the window from the drafts. There was a small fireplace for heat and he set about making a warm fire for his teacher, as in days of old. Abelard lay resting and silently watched John. John finally sat beside him to feed him a thin broth. He ate a few spoonfuls then waved it away. John rose to put Abelard’s tray on the table and Abelard followed him with his eyes. Abelard’s apparition was just like John in every way … Abelard attempted to sit up against his pillow, to catch the apparition with both hands, before it disappeared forever...

“Kiss me John — I am weary now.” Pierre tilted his face upwards towards John’s. John brought his face to almost touch his teacher’s forehead. Abelard ran his fingers over John’s eyes and gazed into them again. The apparition was John without a doubt. He smiled in recognition, as if seeing John for the first time that day. 

“Ah, it is you John! I had the most wonderful dream … you brought me apricots and they were so sweet…” Abelard sighed and smiled. 

“I love you Pierre.” John whispered and with tears streaming down his cheeks, he kissed Pierre. 

“I love you, John, my blood brother….” Abelard murmured against John’s hair. 

Carefully, so as not to hurt his teacher, John lay down on the bed, and pulled the quilted blanket over them both. John wound his arms around Pierre’s frail body, at last embracing his dear brother. He only knew this: that Pierre was beginning to slip into the eternal night. Yet, John knew that Pierre still knew him and loved him. That was everything he ever had to know for the rest of his life. 

They soon fell fast asleep in each other’s arms.


	14. "Non:  I Don't Know"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final meeting between Pierre and John before Pierre passes away.
> 
> John brings Abelard's remains to the Paraclete, as wished by Heloise some time ago. Heloise and John reminisce about Pierre and John learns a great truth from Heloise.
> 
> John returns to Britain and begins to promote Abelard's works and is successful in redeeming Abelard's reputation as the greatest scholar of the age. 
> 
> John is informed that Heloise is gravely ill and pleading to see him one last time. John arrives just in time and he buries her beside Abelard, as she wished. 
> 
> He returns to Britain and forges his career, which eclipses his teacher, Abelard as he so often predicted. John of Salisbury dies at the age of 60 after a successful life as one of the greatest minds of the 12th Century. 
> 
> John's epitaph has an inscription underneath his earthly honors: the love between Abelard and John of Salisbury: in the etched form of both of their brands.

Ch. 14 " Non: I Don’t Know"

 

April 1142: John had received another letter from Peter the Venerable to come at once to Cluny. John was in Chartres on official business with the council. He was given Bernard’s letter from the Pope, to hand deliver to the ailing Abelard. John journeyed at once to Cluny, praying that Abelard was still lucid enough to comprehend the pardon.

“Sir John! You have finally arrived before dark! I am most grateful for your speedy arrival. Welcome and stay as long as you like! Come this way!” he was greeted by the kindly abbot.

“How is my friend and teacher?”John asked directly, as he shook the abbot’s slender hand. slender hand.

“He has the scurvy and a fever for a week now. I am most concerned as he is not eating, more frail and has lost his spirit...” the honest abbot replied.

“Perhaps seeing you once again will revive him. The Abbess and nuns have done all they can to make him most comfortable and lessen his trials and my brothers here have all shown his the highest esteem due him for his life’s work.” Peter continued as they paused in the corridor to speak quietly before entering Abelard’s cell.

“He had been much maligned for his works for most of his life, i daresay.” John admitted and bowing, he added,

“I am grateful for your kindness in offering him a sanctuary here. I had the honor of studying under him when I was in my twentieth

decade, at the St. Genevieve School in Paris. “Ah, I recall hearing of his fame there!” Peter smiled in agreement. “What age and illness does to level a man’s life... yet, it is God’s Will that we all return to the same dust.” Peter added, glancing at Abelard’s door.

He slowly led John down the corridor and with each step, John’s heart stilled with heaviness at what to expect upon seeing his blood brother. Taking a deep breath, he quietly entered as Peter silently withdrew. John saw him lying on a simple cot, in a white nightshirt, his fair hair splayed about the pillow. His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly moving. Was he praying? Was he communing with his Heloise?

John silently entered the quiet room, and stood beside his bedside. John reached to touch his arm and iIt had the hot, dry heat of fever in it. He was fast asleep, breathing shallowly. Random rashes appeared all over his arms and neck and his handsome face glistened with oily pustules. John had seen malnourished children in his village with the scurvy and wondered if Abelard had been eating properly? He knew that he hadn’t if he had been journeying to Rome in haste and he had not eaten much when he was here last month.

The afternoon sun set quickly and John needed to be useful: he busied himself with taking the pile of firewood beside the hearth and building a himself with taking the pile of firewood beside the hearth and building a warm fire for his teacher.

Memories flooded his brain of another fireside, another room, alone with Pierre that glorious week at the Loire-Atlantique years ago. Abelard had taught him the arts of love; he had forged the blood brother bond with him, in return. Could nearly a decade have passed so swiftly? He heard the rustle of bedcovers, a faint voice :

“Is that you Father Pierre? With my medicinals?” Abelard’s whispered weakly.

John dropped the log in his hand, rushing to his bedside. Abelard focused his blurry vision on an apparition: a man in dark clothes, long, slightly graying hair, a glinting cross on his breast. He squinted to make out the face: the highly set cheekbones, slightly somber expression, blue eyes filled with unspoken love...

oh, merciful God, it was John come back to him! Abelard broke out in a sweat, lifting his scarred arms to reach out to the mirage before it could disappear...

“Pierre, it is I, John!” John whispered anxiously, as he bent over Pierre, overjoyed that he had finally revived.

“J-John! It is truly you before my eyes!” Pierre felt John’s arms gathering him up by his perspiring shoulders. John cared not whether he contracted the scurvy. He held his beloved teacher once more!

“Yes, dear master, it is I, to stay with you until you are well again!” John felt the sting of tears behind his eyes as he heard Pierre sob against his breast.

“Ah, my Crusader knight has come back to protect me!” Abelard buried his face in John’s chest. He would surely recover now!

“I will be here all night beside your bed, to tend to your every need.” John kissed his oily cheeks and reclined him back upon his damp pillow.

The door opened with a creak and abbot Peter and a fellow monk brought in two trays: a meal for John and a light broth and medicinals for Pierre. John took them both to the table and bowing low, thanked the kind abbot once again.

“You have managed to revive Master Abelard in the short time you have been here... of that, I am most content!” the old abbot sighed with relief.

“Thank you kindly for the meal and if I may stay this night and possibly the next, I would be most grateful.” John politely added .

“Why, yes Sir John, for as long as your time permits. I have even procured a cot to be brought here at the bedside for you. I must confess, your assistance with Master Abelard relieves my old, weary bones for a time.” Abbot Peter admitted.

John stepped outside for a moment with him, away from Abelard’s hearing.

“Abbot Peter, what is his true condition and hope for recovery?” John asked directly,

“The physician is most concerned for his fever and the state of his frail lungs more than the scurvy itself.” abbot Peter sadly shook his head.

“The master has often spoken highly of you and I deign to say that his opinion is correct. I perceive that you are true to your word and deed and will greatly aid him in his time of need.” abbot Peter lightly touched his arm.

“It is the least I can do for the man who gave me my foundation in learning so long ago. Our friendship has spanned nearly two decades.” John revealed.

“Yes, master has told us that you were his best student and he always knew you you would surpass him someday.” abbot Peter confided.

“If you only knew the half of it, it is he who has surpassed all of us and has been so sorely misunderstood by his contemporaries. Perhaps history will be kind to him in ages to come.” John mused, with a foreknowledge of a future sentiment.

“Sir John, master Abelard told me very soon after arriving here, that if he were to fall seriously ill here, that I was to send for you immediately. He had not requested anyone else, not even family or relative to come.” abbot Peter gazed at him, mystified.

“It is well, as his relations are all gone and he has been as an older brother to me.” John admitted, which was as close to the truth as he would allow, for certain things still must remain a secret.

“Perhaps it is destiny that brought him here, if only that he is comforted by your presence here, or he would have surely perished on the way to Rome.” abbot Peter concluded. He cleared his throat and before turning away to leave, he added.

“Our humble walls been privileged to care for such a renowned man as Pierre Abailard. You have been fortunate to have studied with him in your youth. And I have been honored to give him sanctuary in his final weeks here. I leave you to him now, as time is precious.” abbot Peter then gently pressed John back inside.

Abelard was awakening and John helped him take his meal and medicinals. Abelard looked at John in some confusion, still half-aware of who he was. The fleeting confusion, mingled with his glassy eyed stare told John inwardly that he was slipping.

“Master! It is I, John, your blood brother...” John whispered brokenly, as he stared at Pierre. He reached for a cloth and dipped it in the eucalyptus liquid, rubbing it over his temples and wrists, to stave the fever.

Abelard sighed, murmuring under his breath, “Oh, yes, — i remember the oil, the cloths! Heloise, did you tell John? Tell him.. tell him what I asked!” Abelard sank back on the pillow.

John quickly checked his wrist — a rapid, feeble pulse. He soaked his cloth and wiped his skin with it, over the unsightly matrix of rashes over his legs and chest, down his arms and neck. He remembered another night, scented water and oil, when his teacher healed him of his mental and physical infirmities. He only had one great love in his adult life; Pierre. They may both go to perdition having loved one another but no one would ever know. They would only hear of Abelard and Heloise. John would be known as his protege and friend. Only they would go to their graves with their brands burning throughout eternity.

Tell him what? What did Heloise need to tell him? Was it a last request? Anguish tore at John, as he watched Pierre sink into sleep again. He held his hand, willing his rapid pulse to ease. He only wanted Abelard to have only a minute of lucidity where he could tell him that he loved him, that he would look after Heloise for him. That he would bury her beside him and that he would go on living and fight to restore his good name in the world.

He closed his eyes, and in rapid flash of images, he saw the entirety of his lifespan with Pierre: the first moment he laid eyes on his brilliant teacher, the first bloom of intellect learning under Pierre. Their extraordinary mentor- protege friendship and the heady days of their growing attraction. The letters between Heloise and Pierre, in which was revealed his teacher’s deepest love life. The revealing of their calamities. The healing and fulfillment of his body and soul with Pierre. His meeting with Heloise and the role he played in easing their separation. The busy years of his rise within the clergy and state and his torment being away from Pierre. The letters from Abelard which he had to burn, for their passionate content. Finally, that magical week together where they forged their blood brother bond for life. The branding of their flesh echoing the union of their hearts which was forbidden to them in the world. The lonely years of separation, sustained by their letters and memories and their physical union sublimated into a spiritual union, like that of Heloise and Pierre. John’s reputation had increased while Pierre’s had decreased and his ideas were no longer the leading standard of the age.

Yet, John still loved him, longing for his touch, however imperfect the man’s character was towards others. John only saw the man in private as he was: a man humbled in his presence, ardent and still capable of great love with half of a man’s body and a completely intact mind and imagination. “It is a great honor to be branded by you, to be your blood brother!” Pierre’s impassioned voice returned to his memory. How Abelard loved the very thought of finally becoming a true knight, like his young lover and bravely accepted the agony of the branding, because John was lovingly doing it. And immediately afterwards, wanting John to entirely possess him, to take the pain away with love, the recollection of that fiercely erotic coupling haunting his memories for years.

He gently lay his head upon Pierre’s left breast to hear his faint heartbeat, his long graying hair falling over Pierre’s bare shoulders. Abelard stirred, feeling John’s hands weaving through his hair. He couldn’t speak through the fever.

He reached for John’s warm chest and his fingers curled around a small, gleaming object shining in the dark, long tunnel where he was. He heard John’s patient, calm voice above the rush of wind in his ears:

“Pierre! I finally learned what the True Cross means to me. It is you and I, with our Lord. The Three in One. It is made up of our own sufferings, united with His, in love.” he heard John’s voice whispering in wonder and felt his loving embrace inside the Light.

“Blood brothers now and throughout eternity.” John murmured against his breast and kissed the Rose florette there. Pierre reached for John’s right breast, for the Key there. 

“I love you.” he said wordlessly as he grasped John’s Crusader Cross and pressed the palm of his hand against the key.

He heard another voice sweetly calling to him: “It is you and I, my husband. Our love throughout all time, which no one can tear asunder. Wait for me —I am coming to you very, very soon!” Heloise’s loving voice inundated the lonely tunnel. She placed her soft hand in his, leading him through it towards the Light waiting for him.  The wind suddenly stilled when he faced the Light.

 

“What have you learned during your life, Pierre Abelard?” the Voice asked him.

 

Pierre fell to his knees, covering his face and baring his soul before the Voice and blinding Light.

 

“I don’t know.” he finally realized.

His fingers released their hold from John’s cross. With these three simple words, Pierre Abelard, the greatest intellectual scholar of his times, breathed his last and died.

 

It was later said that Abbot Peter the Venerable found John fast asleep at Pierre’s breast, his arms protectively shielding his bare shoulders from the cold. The fire was nearly out. John awoke to the sounds of footsteps entering, and instinctively knew: he felt Pierre’s hands still upon his chest and cross. He realized that he had reached for him during his last moments, while he slept unaware. He never had to chance to tell him about the True Cross! With tears streaming down his face, John gently pried his fingers away from his Crusader cross and his other hand from inside his tunic.

Standing by respectfully they silently observed John. They saw the old brand mark on his breast and as John rolled Abelard flat upon the bed, his nightshirt had opened, to reveal the Rose florette brand mark. Awestruck, Abbot Peter murmured in wonder:

“They were truly blood brothers of the heart!”

The monks quietly mourned the great scholar who was only with them for a very short time, seeking asylum, which they gladly offered. The nuns prepared his body for transport to the Paraclete, where a grieving Heloise waited. John was the only one who brought Pierre to her, wishing to be alone with his love, before bringing him to Heloise. They greeted each other silently, with a long embrace and tears.

They buried him in a simple crypt with the inscription:

 

“Here lies Pierre Abelard, renowned philosopher and scholar, instructor of logic, dialectics and theology. Husband of Heloise d”Argentuil. Honorable Templar knight by chivalric attrition, spiritual brother of the Order. May Abelard and Heloise be forever united in eternity, which was denied them in this life, to be an example throughout the ages, of undying eternal love.”

It was all completed, as Heloise wished. John sat with her, gazing at the newly buried Pierre.

“John, Pierre wanted me to tell you after his death, of a matter he wished you to know.” Heloise began earnestly. He listened intently, his eyes finally dry.

“Pierre had revealed many things to me in his letters years ago, while he was yet at St. Gildas. He had revealed to me that he became your blood brother in a pact, such as is done by the Templar knights nowadays.” she began explaining.

“Yes, that is true.”John admitted simply. Heloise took a deep breath as if dropping a heavy weight.

“He also confessed to me, of his own free will, that you and he were also intimate, — lovers, at one time.” she exhaled deeply, looking directly into his eyes.

“Lady Heloise, I cannot lie against the vows I have taken. Yes, we were, for a time, then we both ended it, out of respect to you, which I had begged him to do. He healed my body, my mental torment from the wars.”

“Yes, I am aware of what had happened to you during the wars.” Heloise put her hand up to interrupt.

Stunned and embarrassed, John looked down. He was speechless, amazed that she had known for years, yet never told him. More amazed that Pierre had never told him as well.

“In my logic and reasoning, I saw that he was drawn to you, and you, to him as if two completely different halves seeking to lock together to complete each other. It was so with us, in the beginning. Then, because of his calamity and our separation, he withdrew his husbandly affections and sublimated his view of me, no longer as a woman, but as a spiritual sister only.”

“It was so with us towards the end.”John admitted truthfully.

“Life is very strange John. We both loved the same man, for entirely different reasons. Can it be that no matter what sex, that men and women can love the same persons?” she pondered.

“I have often asked that of him, for he never stopped loving you. Even while we were intimate, his manner, his thoughts, were always from the perspective of a normal man, from having loved you first.” John confessed, hoping not to offend this extraordinary woman.

“I can see why he loved you. You are a good man, a true and loyal friend to the death, just as he said.” she lightly touched his arm.

“While I have breath in me, I will always look after your every need here. Even if you wish to leave this convent to live out in the world again, I shall look after you too.” John vowed.

It was only fitting to offer her his protection. She was the only living reminder of his Pierre now.

“My eternal thanks John, but I am content here now. This is my life now. My only request is that you write to me and remember your friend Heloise, whom you have helped to ease her loneliness for her estranged husband these many years. I also request of you that when I die, that I wish you to come to the Paraclete and bury me beside Pierre, as he was long aware of that wish of mine. ” she petitioned him.

John nodded and bowing low, took both of her hands in his, kissing them. She looked into his eyes, the eyes that Pierre had loved. She saw what Pierre had loved most about him: his loving, steadfast loyalty.

John left the Paraclete the following morning, with one last look at Pierre’s resting place and a silent prayer of love. Heloise gave him some of Pierre’s letters to her, containing passages about him and Pierre’s thoughts of John, to console his grief.

 

John returned to Britain and set about printing copies of Pierre’s various treatises, which the Canterbury School eagerly praised posthumously. He wrote to Heloise often, as promised, apprising her of his career and works, and sent her comfortable sums of money, in order to ease the convent’s physical wants and provide them with enough firewood for the cold winters. He received a letter from the new Abbess at the Paraclete in 1156, that Heloise was suddenly very ill.

He immediately cancelled all of his affairs to journey there, desperately hoping to see her alive one last time. She was barely alive when he arrived, and upon hearing his voice, opened her eyes wide, smiled sweetly, and breathlessly whispered, “John! I go to him now at last! I can— see him now! We will wait for you ... “ She smiled again and touched his breast where his Cross was and died thus.

John buried her beside Pierre and the stonemason chiseled the year of her death beside Abelard’s.

The Abbess and nuns prepared food for his journey back to Britain and thanked him for his charity in burying the dead. John went on to become the most erudite Latinist of the age, publishing his masterpiece, Of Politics and Warfare, the first of its kind in the western world.

His moderate temperament, humility and diplomacy made him an asset at Canterbury, where he greatly influenced Thomas Beckett and eventually, witnessed his martyrdom. It was a turning point, and he wrote the martyr’s biography later in his life. An excellent statesman, he became a papal diplomat, traveling to Rome frequently to plead cases for the clergy.

On one of his visits to the Pope, it was formally announced that the Trinitarian Scholastica, Abelard’s most controversial work, was finally found clear of heretical teachings and granted circulation among the influential schools of Paris, Chartres and Rheims.

He ended his days in Chartres as Archbishop there and died at the advanced age of sixty, of natural causes. The Grand Master Templar and knights buried him at Chartres, with full knightly honors, acknowledging John’s recovery of the relics of the True Cross in the Holy Land. The relics had been taken to Constantinople and Rome to secret locations, for safekeeping from the Saracens, still invading the Continent.

On John’s epitaph was the inscription: “Here lies John of Salisbury, England, renowned scholar and statesman, Templar knight, member of expedition of the relics of the True Cross.”

At the bottom of the inscription was etched a single rose, a key across its stem, and the Crusader’s Cross.


	15. "New York City: 2016 - The Hidden Gift"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New York City: 2016 John awakens from a deep nap whee he has had a strange dream... fragments of battles, ancient languages and strange clothing. Harold was in the dream too, of course, as his lover. 
> 
> They decide to go out to eat and after Harold agrees to pick the restaurant and John offers to pay, they await dinner... and Harold gives John a most unexpected gift.
> 
> John wants to share part of his gift with Harold and they chose their favorites. A modern day "brand". 
> 
> They return to the Library for a long, long night together ...

2016: New York City: The Hidden Gift 

John begins to awaken from his deep sleep of several hours. He had dreamt the strangest dream! He dreamt that he was back in time long ago, and Harold was there too. They were together mostly, but then apart for long periods. They wore strange clothes and spoke another ancient language. He protected Harold from enemies who wanted him to keep quiet. John’s dreams were also fragments of battles, fires, and charging in a wedge like formation against the enemy troops. John gradually cleared his head and went to their small bathroom to wash his face. He returns back to Harold’s workstation. 

Harold mentions the book John was reading before dozing off, and teases, 

“interesting choice of reading material John” 

He only smiles, recalling a pleasant part of the dream. He walks to the dusty book stacks behind the grille. John replaces the book back onto the shelf, and as he is straightening the row of book, a small yellow manilla envelope falls near his feet. 

He picked it up and put it back on the shelf before returning back to Harold. 

John walked back to Harold’s desk, and stood behind his chair, intently watching the screen. Multiple cams displayed of outdoor scenes, a row of cafe tables, stately architecture, a lone woman seated at the cafe, bent over an easel. Burgundy red hair shining in the sun. Grace. John knew he still loved her and always would. Harold leaned back in his chair, against John, who rested his cheek against Harold’s. John’s strange dream had ended with him gazing and reading something which made him feel alone and sad. He felt Harold’s cheek against his, smelled his aftershave, and heard him say, 

“Well John since we’ve both had enough rest, shall we go for a bite?”

“You pick it this time, but it’s on me.” John offered. 

“Okay, how about we try La Vie En Rose down at the West Village? They have a good wine and cheese list. We have no new Number today so let’s splurge a little.” Harold excitedly reached for his coat. He handed John the spare car keys and Library entrance key, in case they were suddenly separated tonight. 

“You sure I can afford this place Harold? I don’t want to end up washing dishes there tonight!” John retorted.

“Don’t worry John, I have other plans for you tonight…” Harold grinned and his eyes locked onto John’s. John smiled then, a genuinely happy smile and Harold was taken aback by how one of his rare smiles could light up and transform his normally somber facial expression.

“One second, John… I need to check the rear door gate before we go.” Harold reminded John, as he quickly limped through the book stacks to pull the gate and padlock it securely. John pulled the gate across the main entry into their headquarters and patiently waited for Harold to return. He heard Bear’s whine, as Harold commanded him in Dutch to “stay” and “lie down”, his footsteps falter and stop for a few moments.

“Be right there!” John heard Harold’s muffled voice and then, John heard Harold’s distinct footsteps coming towards him once again. 

After securely locking the main entry and elevator door to the Library’s interior, they stepped outside into the rainy streets. John opened their large black umbrella and pulled Harold in close by the elbow, and somehow locked arms with him between their heavy coats. He squeezed his wrist and whispered for his ears only,

Sharing the umbrella, they slowly walked down the quiet streets to their car, their figures disappearing into the slow moving crowd of umbrellaed pedestrians. On the way, a street vendor was selling miniature roses at the corner of Christopher St. His sign read: “Help support the Veterans of Foreign Wars” - $3.00 a doz. John stopped , gesturing that he wanted 2 bunches and gave him a ten. 

“Keep the change. For the veterans.” John nodded goodnight. Turning to Harold, he presented him with the small bunches of miniature roses. Harold saw him smile with that rare smile again, 

“For you Harold. Those library shelves in back there need a little brightening up.” John squeezed his arm again. Mystified, Harold took them silently and let John guide him through the rain puddles until they reached the safety of their car. 

They drove down Park Ave. past Washington Sq. Park and headed towards the narrow streets of the West Village, until they reached the quaint green awning and bright lights of the Vie En Rose on Grove St. Luckily, they found a good parking spot just around the corner but John used the umbrella anyway. He didn’t want Harold coming down with a cough and cold, when there was so much to do with the Numbers.

They stopped in front of the cafe to read the menu board. 

"Chef Pierre’s Specials"

Boef Medallions, in Loire Valley Wine sauce  
Salmon Atlantique and Leeks  
Chicken de St. Genevieve, in crimson cherry sauce and Pilaf  
Apricot tartan a la mode (Mere Heloise’s house special) 

“If it’s Mothers recipe, then it sounds like a great way to top off dinner.” Harold moistened his lips pointing to the apricot dessert. 

John looked at the menu, and a millisecond’s fleeting thought shot past his brain. The book,— Heloise was her name. Mother’s name is the same. Pierre’s name too, — the roses he just bought. Both of them huddled under the one umbrella … 

“I think it was fate that made me choose this place because no one quite as appealing is open right now.” Harold looked down the rainy street, at the slim pickings there: Dunkin Donuts, a gyro stand ready to close for the night, and another cafe which Harold had been to before, which he didn’t care for. 

“Could be right Harold.” John closed their umbrella and squeezing his arm, they both entered the warm amber lights awaiting them inside. They sat in one of the back booths, as the waitress promptly waited on them,

“What’ll it be tonight for drinks?” she asked politely. 

“We’ll share a bottle of the pinot …” Harold replied, pointing to the D’Autrefois Pinot Noir on the wine list, as John nodded approvingly. Harold felt that tonight called for a celebration; there were no new Numbers and every spare moment he could spend with John without any pressing Numbers, was rare indeed. 

As they placed their orders and sipped on their wine, Harold removed something from the inside of his jacket pocket. 

“While we’re waiting for dinner, I thought tonight called for a celebration John. No new Number tonight, so rare to have a night off with you lately. I had wanted to give this to you for quite some time now. I had thought to give it to you if we ever had to separate for some reason, but there was something about that dream you had today, that changed my mind. I want you to have this now, so that you can enjoy it now and I can share in your enjoyment too.” Harold gently pushed the small manila envelope towards John, who sat utterly still, recalling that he’d briefly noticed it before in the Library: it was the small envelope that had fallen to the floor that he’d picked up and put back onto the dusty bookshelf! 

John now put two and two together; so that was why Harold was dragging his feet in back of the Library, after he had gone to lock the gate in back! 

“Read the note inside John.” Harold softly instructed him.

Unraveling the twine, he slid out a small flat box onto his palm. Inside lay two antique pins side by side: a round medallion-shaped one, with the figures of two knights astride a single horse., each shield emblazoned with a wide cross. Obscure Latin lettering are inscribed around them. The other pin was a curiously shaped design: a single rose with a horizontally placed key across its stem, both encircled in flames. He noticed a slip of paper showing behind the spongy backing. Pulling it out, he unfolded it and read: 

“John,

If our paths ever separate, I just wanted you to have these as a gift from me. When i hired you, i knew you would be really great, but what I didn’t realize was how you’d become such a good friend.”

Always,  
Harold

The words blurred in front of his stinging eyes. He looked at the medallion of the two knights: where had he seen this before? A vague memory suddenly came back to him: he was ten… after his father’s funeral, his mother was looking through his Dad’s war medals in a box, trying not to cry. She showed John his Dad’s Purple Heart and Bronze Star. She took something round out of the box and placed it into his small hand. 

“Johnny, you can have this medal. Your father will always be with you whenever you wear it.” she sadly hugged him. He looked at it: it was a gold medal with a horse and two knights. His mother pinned it on him and touched his cheek.

“Now, you look just like your Dad. Whenever you wear this, he’ll always be near to protect you.” 

He loved that medal and wore it all the time, to be close to his Dad and told his mother he’d be a hero someday, just like Dad. The memory faded and John blinked hard, still staring into his wine goblet.

John vowed right then and there, that he would never abandon Harold. Like the two knights, they would always ride together, having each other’s backs. He had made a deal with the Machine long ago, when Harold was kidnapped and he was the Contingency plan. That he would save all the Numbers he was given, and most of all, he would save Harold if his number ever came up, even giving up his life for him, if he had to, so that he could go back to Grace again. He would pay Harold back in full for everything he had ever done to save his life. 

Now, years later, he was sitting right across from the man who had healed him and given him a purpose and a second chance. Maybe he’d have a chance to make his Dad proud and be a hero someday. After the life he’d lived, he’d need to be a hero ten times over. He owed it to his Dad and now, he owed it to Harold. Harold’s words touched him deeply. With a catch in his voice, John spoke in a raspy whisper.

“Thank you Harold. I’ve never received anything like this before in my life.” John looked down at his wine glass, blinking hard. 

Harold gazed into John’s eyes then. His breath caught in his throat just then, as it always did, when John was deeply affected. A myriad of thoughts hit him full force: he still loved Grace, yes, but she was thousands of miles away now, safe but so, so far and John was here now, and —— he loved both of them, so be it! And if John didn’t stop looking at him like that, he’d crawl on his hands and knees over this table and take him right then and there! 

John ran his fingers over the pins for a moment, in deep thought. 

“Harold, you know that I travel light these days. What on earth would I do with two pins?” John leaned forward and held the box closer for Harold to reach.

“Choose one of the pins Harold. One for you and one for me. We’ll both wear them, ok? It’ll be our way of ‘staying in touch’ wherever we are, ok?” John gently urged him.

“They’re both for you, John!” Harold protested but John held up a hand to speak his mind. 

“I know they’re both mine, Harold. So, since they’re now mine, I can do what I want with them, right? So—.” John patiently coaxed him. 

Harold’s cheeks colored furiously, and he could only stare at the pins.

“Come on Harold, chose the one you want.” John whispered gently.

“All right, John, if you insist.” Harold whispered back. He touched the pin with the rose and the key. John was happy — and relieved, at Harold’s choice: he preferred the pin with the two knights instead. He liked how the riders rode like two brothers on the one horse, protecting each other. 

You’re good at Latin, aren’t you Harold?” Can you translate what it says on my pin here?” John removed both pins from the spongy backing, and handed his pin to Harold.

“Why, yes — it says, hmmm — ‘ not unto us, no, no not unto us, — but to God — be all the glory.’ It’s the Templar Knight’s motto, I believe Legend has it that their famous emblem shows two knights on a single horse, to depict the virtue of poverty. Originally, the Templars lived that way, sharing everything amongst themselves in pairs, even sharing a horse, but that was later abolished.” Harold expounded knowledgeably. 

“Thank God for the horse’s sake.” John teased. Harold almost spit his wine out of his mouth to keep from laughing. John was so dryly funny tonight! 

“I’ll say! But, also the riders’ sake. How would they escape alive from battle if their one horse was fallen?” Harold retorted. 

John nodded in agreement. Harold was always right: You always had to look at the bigger picture. Everyone always reminded him of that. 

“Now, what were you saying about the Library needing some livening up way in the back stacks, John?” Harold raised his eyebrows up suggestively. John leaned back into his seat a little, as his slid his long leg between both of Harold’s knees. 

“Maybe we can get in the back there and dust off some of those bookshelves and get a few more lights up, so you don’t trip over Bear.” John innocently suggested, as he pressed Harold’s knees apart with his own. 

“We—ll yes, John, I’ll need help back there. You’re so much taller and can reach those higher shelves and get the lights up. I can kneel down and get to the lower shelves.” Harold blushed as John pressed his knee in a little further. 

“That’s an even better arrangement, I’d rather stand up anyway.” John had his hand over his mouth, but Harold could tell that he was smiling. 

John slowly withdrew his knee, and Harold breathed a sigh of relief. Harold still held John’s pin in his hand and looking at it again, he cleared his throat.

“Before we dine, shall I pin this to your jacket? I’d like to see what it looks like on you.” 

“Ok Harold, I’ll let you do the honors.” John felt Harold’s deft hands handle the pin easily and in no time, it was perfectly pinned to his lapel. The antique gold blended in well with his bespoke suit. 

“I’d like to pin yours on you too, Harold.” John took the flame embellished key and rose pin and pinned it on Harold’s lapel. Both sat back, examining each other’s pins, wine goblets in hand. Then, raising their glasses, they toasted one another:

“To such a great friend who has become truly indispensable!” Harold raised his glass to John’s, watching him over the rim. 

“To a great friend who gave me a second chance.” John quietly toasted his friend.

Famished, they ate with gusto and finished the last of the wine while sharing the apricot tartan that Harold wanted. They rose to leave as soon as they were done paying the check. Harold wanted to get back to the Library as soon as possible to be with John, especially after John mercilessly taunted him with his knee, underneath the table during most of of the evening. 

The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle now, and John opened their umbrella once again.

“I don’t have a horse we can share Harold. This will have to do.” John glanced up at the umbrella which he held high for Harold, to shelter him from the rain. John's fingertips brushed against Harold's new pin from him: a rose, for love, and a key, for wisdom. Surrounded by flames, for passion, John concluded to himself. 

Harold reached up and touched John’s new pin: the two inseparable knights on their single horse, protecting one another on their quest. 

“It’s so much better than being on a horse. I get motion sickness you know.” Harold said, a little embarrassed. John chucked then, and weaving his arm around Harold’s, he led him back to their car, which they got into in a hurry. John tossed the umbrella onto the backseat and did what he wanted to do all night: he brought his face near Harold’s and kissed him, once, twice, and a third time. 

“I have a cure for motion sickness.” John murmured hotly.

“And what is that?” Harold breathlessly asked as he savored John’s kiss, tasting of burgundy, apricots and whipped cream.

“I’ll lie you down and order you to be completely still, and then —“ John started the engine and turned on his CD player. The strains of Nat King Cole singing “Mona Lisa” began to play. 

“You’ll see when we get back.” John said cryptically. Harold shook his head and muttered half-aloud,

“If you were a woman, you’d be just like her —“ he pointed to the CD player.

“What?” John absently asked, as he began to back out from their parking spot.

“the Mona Lisa, John! —— sometimes, I just can’t figure you out because you’re so mysterious!” Harold sighed.

“Coming from someone who’s not exactly an open book!” John retorted as he helped Harold click on his seat belt, and they quickly drove back home, to the Library. 

They finally reached the front door to the abandoned library entrance and quickly unlocked every gated entrance, ascended the wide staircase, to the elevator and up to the Library. Harold clutched the other bouquet of roses that John had bought earlier, intending to liven up the atmosphere, as John reminded him. John did a quick check of the locks for any tampering, and finding none, he breathed a sigh of relief and led the way inside. 

Harold immediately went towards the book stacks with his little bouquet of roses, which he put into an empty glass jar, which was Bear’s treat holder. He filled it with an already opened bottle of water by his desk. John had already removed his coat and walked back to the book stacks to look for Harold. There he was, trying to plant the roses onto the highest shelf. John raised his arm up and easily finished the task, and his hand touched Harold’s. Was it the excellent wine tonight affecting John? Harold wondered, as John ran his hand down Harold’s arm, fingers on his collar and then, lightly trailing down his spine. Harold held his breath in mounting excitement, as John’s arms wound around his waist. 

“Do you still have that motion sickness Harold? Do I need to lie you down and keep you as still as possible?” John brushed his lips against the back of his ear. Harold was older but not dead yet! 

“We—ll, yes, that would be a good idea, John!” Harold felt John’s hands tightening around him and he leaned back heavily against John’s chest. 

“I better lie you down before you end up lying right on top of me and all the books come tumbling down!” John teased as Harold attempted to control himself.

“Who cares? The shelves have to be dusted anyway!” Harold turned to face John, and pulled him closer. Knowing that John had been “ready for action” all night, Harold pressed John against the bookshelf with surprising force and John let Harold kiss him with those wonderful lips of his. Harold looked into John’s eyes, and saw everything he wanted to know. A leaning book at the end of the shelf suddenly fell to the floor by their feet and one of the loose red rose petals noiselessly fell onto Harold’s shoulder. 

It was going to be a long night ...

**Author's Note:**

> A very special thank you to "Wanderer" for her excellent Beta editing work: I chose her because of her gift for grammatical preciseness and her keen eye for detail. 
> 
> The historical facts of the Abelard and Heloise legend were found on Wiki. 
> 
> Due to the AU, Rinch aspects of this fic, certain physical & personal characteristics of John's AU character were altered, in keeping with John Reese's appearance and backstory on "Person of Interest". 
> 
> "SPOILER": Chapter 2 has a heavy emphasis on medieval religious thought, very prominent during the 11-1200's due to THE rise of the Church and their association with the future great universities of Europe, whose instructors were mostly Church appointed and the Church's total influence in Western European society. 
> 
>  
> 
> References;
> 
> Wikipedia: Peter Abelard, Heloise, John of Salisbury
> 
> "Internet Sacred Text Archive: Link: Christianity : The Letters of Abelard and Heloise.


End file.
